votional intent,
had been singing some hymn to him, which he had composed as being
suitable for the occasion. But the dying man's ears were dulled, and he
mistook both air and words. "You're a good fellow to sing me that," he
whispered. "I know you don't like striking up that sort of music. By
Jove! I heard that song last at the Pav. Good old Piccadilly Circus."

And then a little later: "I say, Skipper. I'm close on the peg-out.
There's a girl in Winchester--but hang her, anyway. No, you've been my
best pal. You're to have all my share of the loot--the ivory, I mean.
You savvy, I leave it to you in my last will and testament, fairly and
squarely. And Skipper, I'm sorry I ragged you about your mug on those
New Republic stamps. If ever a man deserved what he wanted in that line,
you're--you're--"

The voice failed. "Yes?" said Kettle, and stooped nearer.

Clay feebly winked. "You're him," he whispered. "So long, old cock."

Captain Kettle buried his friend in the first gold of the next dawn
under a magnolia tree, which was hung with sweet-scented blossoms, in
the middle of the village. During the heat of the day he composed a copy
of verses to his memory, and when the sun had dropped somewhat, he went
out with his knife to carve them on the tree above the grave.

It appeared that the village was not so completely deserted as seemed to
the eye, or, at any rate, that he had been watched. On the newly turned
earth was a chicken, which had been sacrificed in the orthodox fashion;
and for once he beheld the sight without resentment.

He raised his hat to the dead, and "Doc," he said, "this hen-killing is
bang against my principles, but I won't say anything now. I guess it's
some nigger's way of showing respect to you, and, by James! you're a
fellow that ought to be admired. If only it hadn't been for that tree
falling down, there'd have been two men round here that would have left
their mark on Africa, and you're one of them. Well, old man, you're
gone, and I hope you're looking down this moment--or up, as the case may
be--to read this bit of poetry I'm going to stick above your head. It's
worth attention. It's about the best sample of rhyme I ever
hoisted out."

CHAPTER V

THE LOOTING OF THE "INDIAN SHERIFF."

Captain Kettle dived two fingers into the bowl of odorous,
orange-colored palm-oil chop, and fished out a joint suspiciously like a
nigger baby's arm. He knew it was a monkey's; or at least he was nea