“Casson not too good,” she muttered. “Pipina worry about Casson. Worry hard.”
“What was wrong with Casson?” cried Bomba, exasperated beyond measure by the slowness with which Pipina got on with her story.
“He very sick,” returned the squaw. “He not right.” She touched her forehead significantly. “He walk back and forth, back and forth, and talk to himself. He say: ‘Laura, Laura, dear sweet Laura. Must tell Bomba. Bartow and Laura and little boy—’”
Bomba caught the arm of the old woman in an eager grip.
“Go on,” he commended. “What else did Casson say? Tell Bomba.”
But Pipina shook her head.
“He not say more,” she said. “Only those words he say again and again. Then he stop, listen at door of hut, listen and then walk up and down, up and down.”
“Go on,” cried Bomba.
“Then we hear things. We think you come. We happy. We sing. We dance. But no, Bomba not come. It is the headhunters that come to try to kill Casson and Pipina—”
Bomba gave a low growl like that of an animal and ground his teeth together.