In certain circumstances it is right that a man be humoured in trifles. Mahamo, having borne out the merchandise, arranged it very neatly.
While Mr. Williams made his toilet, the sun and the forest, careless of the doings of white and black men alike, waged their warfare implacable and daily. The forest from its inmost depths sent forth perpetually its legions of shadows that fell dead in the instant of exposure to the enemy whose rays heroic and absurd its outposts annihilated. There came from those inilluminable depths the equable rumour of myriads of winged things and crawling things newly roused to the task of killing and being killed. Thence detached itself, little by little, an insidious sound of a drum beaten. This sound drew more near.
Mr. Williams, issuing from the hut, heard it, and stood gaping towards it.
"Is that them?" he asked.
"That is they," the islander murmured, moving away towards the edge of the forest.
Sounds of chanting were a now audible accompaniment to the drum.
"What's that they're singing?" asked Mr. Williams.
"They sing of their business," said Mahamo.
"Oh!" Mr. Williams was slightly shocked. "I'd have thought they'd be singing of their feast."
"It is of their feast they sing."