revailed upon a man
to allow me to experiment upon him. That, however, was quite
sufficient; for it did him so much good that not only did he come to my
hut clamouring for more, but brought several fellow-sufferers with him,
with the result that before the week was out I had firmly established my
reputation as a powerful witch-doctor. I very soon found, however, that
this reputation was by no means an unmixed blessing; for the people
jumped to the conclusion that if I could cure one disease I could of
course cure all; and I speedily found myself consulted by patients
suffering from ailments of which I did not even know the names, and
expecting to be cured of them. Yet, astonishing to say, I was
marvellously successful, all things considered, for when at a loss I
administered pills compounded of meal dough and strongly flavoured with
the first harmless substance that came to hand, and so profound was the
belief of these people in my ability that at least half of them were
cured by the wonderful power of faith alone.

All this, however, was exceedingly detrimental to the reputation of
Mafuta, the chief witch-doctor of the community, who found his power and
influence rapidly waning, and he soon discovered means to make me
understand that I must cease to trespass upon what he deemed his own
exclusive sphere of operations, on pain of making him my mortal enemy.
This of course was bad, for I was in no position to make any man my
enemy, much less an individual of such power and influence as Mafuta;
nevertheless I continued to prescribe for all who came to me, trusting
that if ever it should come to a struggle between Mafuta and myself, the
gratitude of my patients would suffice to turn the scale in my favour.

Meanwhile I devoted my spare moments to the construction of a flute,
and, after two or three partial failures, succeeded in producing an
instrument of very sweet tone and a sufficient range of notes to enable
me to tootle the air of several of the most popular songs of the day, as
well as a fairly full repertoire of jigs, hornpipes, and other dance
music. And it was particularly interesting to observe how powerfully
anything in the nature of real music, like some of the airs of Braham,
Purcell, Dr Arne, and Sir H. Bishop, appealed to these simple savages;
a sentimental ditty, such as "The Anchor's weighed" or "Tom Bowling,"
would hold them breathless and entranced; "Rule, Britannia!" or "Should
He upbraid" set them