"Mein Gott! It iss Mr. Hammer!"
"Krausz—good Lord, I nearly plugged you. man! What's going on here, an attack?"
The other stared at him a moment, their faces close. Hammer was quick to observe a startled suspicion in the Teuton's heavy features, and the revolver did not go down.
"What are you doing with that gun?" demanded Krausz threateningly.
"Holding it," was the American's laconic response. Then, at a fresh outburst of yells: "You aren't going to stand here and be murdered, I hope?"
"Murdered? Hein?" For an instant the other was puzzled, then his teeth flashed in a sudden laugh as he understood.
"Oh, you thought it wass an attack, yess? And so you got out the gun—ho-ho! Come to my tent—— Pardon, me, but I must laugh, for it iss but my home-coming, Mr. Hammer. Have you dined?"
"I haven't anything. I'm stiff and sore and grouchy, and all I want is to get out of this blasted country as quick as I can."
The doctor laughed again, and they returned to the tent together. Before Krausz had finished his bath the camp had undergone a transformation in Hammer's eyes. Fires had been built, around which masses of natives were grouped; there was a smell of roasting meat in the air, and brush huts were being quickly put up by the dozen.
Jenson received a sound berating for not having attended to Hammer's wants in better fashion at Melindi, and by the time they sat down to mess with the secretary and Baumgardner, the American was feeling more like himself.