Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [67]
But it was not literally empty: stretched on two pegs was one of those identical kilts he had envied – a kilt made of long, pliant grass fixed to a string. And the maker had evidently just completed her labour, for the last strand of grass was not tied. Bones snatched the kilt from the wall and wrapped it round him. It had evidently been intended for a lady of more generous proportions, for the kilt passed twice round his body before it met. There was nothing left but to march up the street. The horrified people of Lugala gathered at the doors of their huts to see the strange and even appalling sight; but Bones, mindful of his dignity, screwed his eyeglass in his eye – thank heaven the unknown robbers had not stolen that – and walked with majesty the length of the street, apparently oblivious to the bewildered or guilty eyes that stared as he passed.
His servant had gone on board the Wiggle. His host was not in sight. Bones dived in and began a frantic search for clothes. They also had gone! His bedding had been taken away, his breeches – everything, indeed, except a short silk singlet which seemed, in all the circumstances, inadequate.
Bones put his head out of the door and yelled for the chief, but there was no response. Not that Borobo did not hear him. Indeed, he took trouble to explain to his impressed wives what the commotion was all about.
“The Lord Tibbetti sings every morning, being a young and joyous man. Now listen to his beautiful voice. Such is singing in the way of his people.”
“Heavens and Moses!” gasped Bones when no succour came, and he was on the point of stepping out, made shameless by his misfortune, when a familiar sound came to his ear. It was the “honk honk!” of the Zaire’s siren. Bones sat down and wiped his forehead. Sanders was here! And Hamilton, whom he had dropped at the mouth of the Isisi River to meet Sanders. And the Hon. Muriel! There was a scamper of feet past the door of the hut. All the village was tearing down to the beach to welcome the Commissioner.
Bones waited till he thought the coast was clear, then stepped out of the hut. There was a shriek from the girl attending a cooking-pot before the chief’s hut, and he dashed back again. He must be dreaming, he thought; pinched himself – and it was so easy to pinch himself – to make sure, and had very convincing proof that he was awake.
He waited, every second an hour, every minute an eternity, and then there came to him the voice of Sanders.
“That is the chief’s hut, Miss Witherspan, and this hut near is the guest-house. You’d better look inside the guest-house: it is less objectionable than the others.”
There was a patter of light feet, and Bones screamed: “Keep out, honourable miss! Jolly old Muriel, keep out!”
“Who’s that – Bones?” asked Sanders in amazement. “What the dickens are you doing here?”
“Don’t come in!” squeaked Bones. “I’ve got no clothes on.”
Incoherently he told his story. There was a sound of suppressed laughter. Of course, Ham would laugh!
“Don’t laugh, you silly old ass,” said Bones wrathfully. “Go along and get me some clothes, you naughty old captain.”
“I had to laugh,” said the musical voice of Muriel.
“Good heavens, young miss! Was it you?” stammered Bones.
“It was me. Captain Hamilton has gone down to get you some clothing. Can’t I just peep in?”
“No, you can’t,” said Bones loudly. “Have a sense of decency, dear old artist!”
“Who did this – the Wazoos?”
There was a malignity in her cooing voice that made Bones shiver. Hamilton had told her! The cad!
“Now listen, dear old painter and decorator – ” began Bones.
“Mr Tibbetts – you pulled my leg.”
“Be decorous!” urged Bones.
“You pulled my leg. I shan’t forget it. I’m coming in to sketch you!”
“I’ve got nothing on,” roared Bones, untruthfully, “except a pair of