He drew his watch from his pocket and held it up. It approached. He whistled, and it approached nearer. Two yards away it stopped dead.
“Tick-tick,” said Adams, holding up the watch.
“Papeete N’quong,” replied the other, or words to that effect.
It spoke in a hoarse, crowing voice not at all unpleasant. If you listen to English children playing in the street you will often hear this croaking sort of voice, like the voice of a young rook.
Papeete struck Adams as a good name for the animal and, calling him by it, he held out the watch as a bait.
The lured one approached closer, held out a black claw, and next moment was seized by the foot.
It rolled on the ground like a dog, laughing and kicking, and Adams tickled it; and the grim soldiers laughed, showing their sharp white teeth, and the old grandmother beat her hands together, palm to palm, as if pleased, and the other villagers looked on without the ghost of an expression on their black faces.
Then he jumped it on its feet and sent it back to its people with a slap on its behind, and returned to his tent to smoke till Berselius and Meeus returned.
But he had worked his own undoing, for, till they broke camp, Papeete haunted him like a buzz-fly, peeping at him, sometimes from under the tent, trotting after him like a dog, watching him from a distance, till he began to think of “haunts” and “sendings” and spooks.
When Berselius and his companion returned, the three men sat and smoked till supper time.