“But he will not be able to take it off now!”
“Take what off?” said Pollock.
“And all dese cards are spoiled!”
“What do you mean by taking off?” said Pollock.
“You must send me a new pack from Freetown. You can buy dem dere.”
“But—‘take it off’?”
“It is only superstition. I forgot. De niggers say dat if de witches—he was a witch—But it is rubbish—You must make de Porroh man take it off, or kill him yourself—It is very silly.”
Pollock swore under his breath, still staring hard at the head in the corner.
“I can’t stand that glare,” he said. Then suddenly he rushed at the thing and kicked it. It rolled some yards or so, and came to rest in the same position as before, upside down, and looking at him.
“He is ugly,” said the Anglo-Portuguese. “Very ugly. Dey do it on deir faces with little knives.”