Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [41]
“Now, now!” said Bones soothingly, and stooped to pat the bullet head. Hector watched the approach of the hand with suspicion and doubt, but apparently was prepared to submit to the caress.
Then: “Snap!”
Bones leapt back with a yell. “Naughty, naughty!” he squeaked. “You bad, savage, naughty boy. Ugh! I’m ashamed of you!”
Hector bared his teeth and seemed crouching for a leap.
“You’d never think, dear old Ham,” beamed the proud owner, standing at a respectful distance, “that a ferocious old johnny like Hector was as gentle as a jolly young baby?”
“I shouldn’t: what the dickens are you going to do with him?” asked Hamilton.
“Train him, dear old thing. In three months Hector will be carrying my stick and standing to attention. Up, Hector! Watch him, Ham! Most wonderful intelligence, dear old sir. Watch him stand on his hind legs – taught him in five minutes! Up, Hector!”
Bones snapped frantic fingers above the bull pup’s head, but Hector did no more than leer at him and make a mental calculation. Could he get those fingers if he jumped? Reluctantly he decided he couldn’t, and closed his eyes wearily.
Hamilton was looking at the dog. “I don’t think I should call her Hector, Bones,” he said drily. “Helen of Troy would be more respectful,” and Bones gaped.
“Is he a she, dear old thing? Bless my dear old life! So he is. Hi, Helen! Up, Helen!”
But not even her changed status affected the dozing Helen, and in the end Bones tied her to the verandah rail and went in to breakfast.
“I got him as a surprise for you, dear old Ham,” he said. “Your birthday coming along – how the dear old years spin round!”
“If you think you’re going to pass that savage beast on to me – think again!” said Hamilton firmly. “My birthday was celebrated two months ago, as you know.”
“Christmas coming along,” said Bones pleadingly. “You’re not going to turn down dear old Santa Claus, Ham?”
Sanders, a silent and an amused observer, intervened.
“It is something of a coincidence that your lady friend should have arrived today, Bones – by the way, I should keep Helen locked up whilst Fobolo is here…”
* * *
Running from the great river is a stream, so small and so covered by weed and elephant grass that only a few men knew the secret of its course. Therefore is it called “No river-One River,” or, more intimately, N’ba, which is an abbreviation of ten words signifying “The-River-that-the-N’gombi-found-and-the-Isisi-lost.” Which is a name of reproach, for the Isisi are riverain folk, and the N’gombi are forest people who are so unwise in the ways of water that, when they fall into the river, they make a noise that sounds like “glub glub!” and drown.
Cala cala in those days when Lieutenant Tibbetts was a comparative newcomer to the river, there lived at the end of this river of no appearance, and at the place where it drains the big lake, a man whose name was Fobolo. He was a rich man with many huts and many wives, and two and twenty young children. Of all men of the N’gombi people he was most respected and feared, for his father, Kulaba, had been a very wise man and was skilled in the way of poisons, and many inconvenient people lay in shallow holes on the islands, troublesome no more, because of the bitter foods they had taken from their wives’ hands. These they had eaten, and had died, and their wives had girded their flanks with green leaves, and had stamped and strutted ceremoniously through the village in the Death Dance.
Kulaba grew rich and taught his son Fobolo his mysteries, such as how a certain blue flower may be boiled and the drippings of its steam collected; and how the bulb of an ugly weed might be mashed and its juice disposed of. And such things.
Fobolo listened attentively, and one night he went out into the forest and found a little flowering weed that has a strong and unpleasant perfume. The flowers of these he collected, and stewed them until the water was all boiled away, and then he took the mess and made a small ball of it. That night his father had pains in the stomach and died, and Fobolo took