"A rather valuable one," commented the colonel.
"Well, you see," pursued Tiny, "Colin saved his life. He——"
"Shut up, you ass!" whispered Colin, turning a dusky red. "Nothing of the sort, sir. I threw him a lifebelt. He had fallen overboard."
"And jumped in after it to make sure that Van der Wyck got it," continued the unabashed Tiny. "The ship was doing about seventeen knots at the time and it was night. They were in the water for about an hour before a boat picked them up."
"I'd like to make Van der Wyck's acquaintance," observed Herbert Narfield, handing back the swastika. "It would be interesting to know how he came by it. There's an inscription on it in Chaldean and, I fancy, Hebrew, and these two rough engravings represent either a winged bull or a paschal Iamb. At least, that's what I take them to be without going deeply into the matter. This trinket might possibly be three thousand years old. We'll go further into the matter later on. Meanwhile we are approaching Sibenga's Kraal."
The approach of the four white men had already been observed, and a swarm of natives—men, women, and children—poured from the huts with loud cries that were intended as a song of welcome for the illustrious guests.
At their head stalked Sibenga himself. The chief was dressed in a huntsman's discoloured scarlet coat that in better days might have graced the Quorn or the Pytchley meet, a pair of canvas trousers that at one time were white, and a pair of khaki puttees. Round his neck he wore a bicycle chain burnished until it shone like silver. From the charm was suspended a copper disc on which were roughly cut the words "Sibenga: he wants watching." His head was shaven, with the exception of a ring of hair worked up with gum until it resembled a leather headband.
His face was full, his eyes small and deep set. A scanty black beard failed to conceal the full protruding lips and flabby cheeks of the chief. His feet from the lowermost folds of the puttees were bare. In his right hand he carried a knobkerrie, while on his left arm he bore a small cowhide shield.
Yet in spite of his bizarre appearance Sibenga appeared anxious to please his white guests. True he was somewhat puzzled that the four men had arrived on foot, and that they carried loads instead of being accompanied by native porters.
Colonel Narfield wasted no time in preliminaries. He spoke Swahili fairly fluently, and although he had not been long in the country he had picked up a smattering of the Kaffir tongue that is more or less understood from Cape Town to Ujiji.