“An American.”
The native had never heard of such people, and he began to think Ibrahim was making a fool of him.
The natives laughed and raised their weapons.
Ibrahim, in a loud voice, told them that they were going to be killed if they dared to touch Max; that he could cause the storm to come and the wind to blow, and advised them to ask the Gondos.
Among the few things saved from the boat in which they had made their perilous journey was a bottle of araki—a native spirit almost equal in power to proof alcohol.
Max suggested that the hostile chief should be regaled with a little of the araki, and that his friendship should be purchased that way.
The bottle was produced, but neither Ibrahim nor Max had any chance of opening it, for the hostile chief took the bottle from them, broke off the neck, and drank the contents as easily as he could have swallowed water.
“Good, good! more!” he exclaimed; but at that moment a violent storm of thunder and rain burst upon them with terrific fury.
The rain fell like a veritable cloudburst, and the natives, remembering what Ibrahim had said, ascribed the storm to Max, and fled as though ten thousand soldiers were pursuing them.
The American’s reputation was now well assured, and the musicians beat the cymbals louder than ever, while the men shouted themselves hoarse.