Chapter Four—THE JOKERS OF NEW GIBBON
I
“I'm almost afraid to take you in to New Gibbon,” David Grief said. “It wasn't until you and the British gave me a free hand and let the place alone that any results were accomplished.”
Wallenstein, the German Resident Commissioner from Bougainville, poured himself a long Scotch and soda and smiled.
“We take off our hats to you, Mr. Grief,” he said in perfectly good English. “What you have done on the devil island is a miracle. And we shall continue not to interfere. It is a devil island, and old Koho is the big chief devil of them all. We never could bring him to terms. He is a liar, and he is no fool. He is a black Napoleon, a head-hunting, man-eating Talleyrand. I remember six years ago, when I landed there in the British cruiser. The niggers cleared out for the bush, of course, but we found several who couldn't get away. One was his latest wife. She had been hung up by one arm in the sun for two days and nights. We cut her down, but she died just the same. And staked out in the fresh running water, up to their necks, were three more women. All their bones were broken and their joints crushed. The process is supposed to make them tender for the eating. They were still alive. Their vitality was remarkable. One woman, the oldest, lingered nearly ten days. Well, that was a sample of Koho's diet. No wonder he's a wild beast. How you ever pacified him is our everlasting puzzlement.”
“I wouldn't call him exactly pacified,” Grief answered. “Though he comes in once in a while and eats out of the hand.”
“That's more than we accomplished with our cruisers. Neither the German nor the English ever laid eyes on him. You were the first.”
“No; McTavish was the first,” Grief disclaimed.