The headman of the village in which Chiromo lived was quickly brought back, and stood, covering his eyes with his hands.
"Now go on with the burning," ordered the Commissioner.
The tone of authority was unmistakable, so Chiromo complied without further ado.
One by one the medicines, necklets, charms and other rubbish were dropped into the fire. After a while, the headman removed his hands from his face. It was evident that the white man was the stronger doctor of the two. Chiromo had looked very bad, it was true, but he had been able to do nothing. One by one the witnesses crept back and took their seats.
The Commissioner then sent for one of his house-boys and gave him an order in an undertone. The boy presently returned, carrying a carpet slipper.
"Hold Chiromo face downwards on the ground," said the Commissioner. The messengers obeyed. "Now, Mokorongo, beat him."
And Mokorongo did so, in the manner of a mother chastising her child—but rather harder.
Chiromo squealed, promising loudly never to offend again. Then someone laughed, then another and another; presently all were laughing—with the exception of Chiromo—even the Commissioner smiled: Mokorongo stopped beating and laughed too.
The messengers released their hold on Chiromo, who got up rubbing a certain portion of his anatomy. Everybody laughed again.
Laughter at a man kills faith in him. The spell was broken. From that day forward this witch doctor, once powerful in hypnotic suggestion, was as other men.