shall we ever forget that sunrise and how the glow in the east chased the pregnant shadows? never! we are not afraid, that is, afraid in the usual sense of the term. if the natives had attacked us we should have joyously risen to the occasion and put mr. colt to the fore to argue for us. it was the suspense we minded. those things which we can see and gage with our full consciousness never bother us. it is the unseen and mysterious that we dread. when one does not know what to expect, nor from which direction the danger may come, it is the nerve tension, the high-keyed alertness, that saps the system of its reserve stamina and makes the goose-flesh crawl along the spine at the slightest unidentified sound. it is the intangible, the unseen, the insidious stealthy 86danger that creeps upon one unawares, that strikes in the dark where one is unable to strike in return, that make the night vigil nerve-racking. genial old imagination creates dangers that do not exist. dawn is welcome to the watcher, always, but doubly so when one is literally between covetous devils and the deep sea.

to control, one must gather things into the grip of one’s own hands. one must take the initiative; therefore, we shall go early this morning to the kampong. we are just making ready the things we shall need while away from camp when there drifts to us on the fresh breeze a wild cadence which quickens the pulse. whether it is war-cry or song of welcome we do not know, but it sounds ominous to our unaccustomed ears, at any rate. our heads pop out from the tents concerto, much like those of the impossible policemen of the movies, and our eyes pop also at what we see. in the distance comes the gang. they are making their way toward our camp with considerable esprit de corps, weapons wildly waving and throats roaring. 87this will bear looking into, we feel, and the colts are loosened tentatively in their holsters. as the savages draw near we heave a sigh or two of relief, for we realize that this at least is not the moment.

those who are not yelling at the top of their leather lungs are laughing and they come to a walk as they approach our sacred demesne. obedient to our instructions of yesterday, they halt at the furrow in the sand that marks the limits of our arm’s-length hospitality and stand there like a throng of spoiling-for-something children. we advance to meet them and they chatter volubly at us and hold out their hands as though demanding something. one of them, who evidently has heard the malay traders name the weed in his own tongue, asks—or, rather, shouts,—“rocco!” which is malay for “tobacco.” it is the old familiar “rush act” that they are giving us and we are too much relieved at their unwarlike attitude to refuse them.

the open carton is dragged out with despatch and each of the natives is presented with one 88blue package. the black men cavort around like a lot of exuberant school-boys while awaiting their turn to receive the little present. finally they begin to cluster too close and as the task of distributing the tobacco becomes difficult and contact with greasy, smelly arms and clutching hands inevitable, we toss the remaining packets over the heads of the nearer ones and there ensues a wild scramble.

many of them lose out in the mêlée and must do without, while many have received two portions. those who fail to get any come to the dead-line and with hands outstretched ask for some, but this we refuse. they must be taught decorum. they hang around for a time and finally drift away in the direction of the kampong, where their more successful brothers have gone. some of them seem to be much put out, and we turn over in our minds the advisability of calling them back and giving each a package of tobacco. a moment’s consideration, however, convinces us that this would be an admission of weakness and would be taken advantage 89of later. when the white man has concluded a matter he must let the native know that it is settled for all time.

when the last of the cannibals has departed and we reenter our tent to conclude our preparations for the visit to the kampong we encounter moh. with the coming of the howling crew of savages he dived into the tent to hide, and he now crawls from beneath a cot as nearly white as his olive skin will permit.

moh believed this to be his last hour on earth and he tried to prolong the agony by hiding. he is speechless with fright, for he could hear the racket outside the tent, but could not see what was transpiring. never, never again will he leave his fair home in java to go adventuring with americans! his cup is brimming over and his voice, when it returns, quavers in a falsetto ecstasy of trepidation. as a fighting-man, moh is a good cook. that suffices.

our march to the kampong is one of many thrills. the natives whom we believed to have returned to the village have simply withdrawn 90to the screening jungle and from its cover watch us with none too friendly interest. they do not like the idea of our visit, for their women are in the village and they are not sure that we may not take a liking to some of them and carry them off. this has been done in times past by other white men in other kampongs and for all we know may have been done right here. our purpose in coming to their country is, of course, inexplicable to the savages and necessarily we are objects of great distrust.

now and then we see shadows flitting noiselessly from tree trunk to thick-growing shrubbery as they follow our course and twice we encounter stalwart warriors standing like sentinels near the pathway as though disdainful of concealment. these, as we smilingly address them, merely grunt a non-committal reply and glower at us through narrowed lids. as we pass them they withdraw into the undergrowth, to travel silently abreast of us but well out of sight.

when we finally step out of the dimness of 91the jungle into the clearing of the kampong we find an apparently deserted village. news of our coming has preceded us, and all the inhabitants are hiding indoors. one glance down the little street shows us that the kampong is different from the one we visited at merauke. this one consists of five low shacks each of which is tenanted by several families, and it has no enclosing wall. each house is similar to its neighbor and measures roughly, one would say, fifty feet in length by twenty in width. the side walls must be seven or eight feet in height and the roof rises to a ridge about fifteen feet above the ground. centrally located in the street end of the house is the only door of which it boasts, and perched above and around this dark opening are grisly reminders of deceased foemen who have passed beyond via the roasting-pit. over each of the doorways hang the skulls of several human beings, interspersed with those of crocodiles that the braves of the household have killed in their hunting-excursions.

before the first of the shacks a short, forked 92sapling is planted and from each of the lopped-off branches of the fork there grins at us in loose-jawed mockery a sun-bleached reminder that the kia kias are a people of perverted taste. as we near the entrance of this dwelling we are greeted by a savage whom we do not remember having seen before. he is clad in the conventional nothingness, but is adorned with the gayest of feathered headgear. he carries two throwing-spears and a dainty stone mace that would cause complete an?sthesia in an elephant. that stone war-club in the hands of a boy of sixteen would spoil a whole day for us, if he could wield it, but in the hands of the six-foot savage who fashioned it for real use it is positively ruinous.

the black man greets us with a grunt. that grunt may mean anything, we tell ourselves, and proceed to translate it as one of friendliness and welcome. by means of the sign language we endeavor to convey the fact that we are come as friends and are paying our duty call in return for the kindly interest shown us only this morning. during our delsarte exercises others of the clan approach to gaze at us with suspicious eyes, and moh, who carries the cameras and a box of tin trinkets intended for the women, draws closer to our heels.

we made presents of tin jewelry to the natives, but what they wanted was tobacco

feathered head-dresses moving through the tall grass told us of the natives watching our progress toward the kampong

93evidently our meaning becomes clear to them, for they unbend a little and a smile flits over some of the paint-besmeared visages that now surround us. we have come to make some presents to the women, for they rule the kampongs, but just now they are nowhere in sight. we ask for them, and loud chatter ensues. at first the men seem a little dubious as to our intentions, but by showing them a package of tobacco and indicating that they have already tasted of our generosity we make them understand that we merely wish to present the women with a token of our good-will.

one of the crowd is despatched by the chief to round up the timorous females and after some delay they appear, huddled in a hand-holding group, at the other end of the village, which end they firmly refuse to leave. it is beneath the 94dignity of a white man to go to the native, so we simply stand and wait, though with apparent annoyance. the chief—or, as they call him, kapala kampong—senses that we are somewhat miffed at the reluctance of the women and takes things into his own hands. turning toward the women, he bellows to them to come immediately. the commands of the chief in matters of this kind seem to carry some weight, for the women saunter in our direction, trying to appear coyly indifferent, but probably scared. finally, when they have entered the circle of men which opens to receive them, we break the silence and turn to moh with a request for the box of trinkets. in it are gold-washed bracelets and chains that glitter enticingly in the sunlight, and we expect the women to break into cries of extreme delight when we open it. we are not a little surprised, as we display the contents, at the utter lack of enthusiasm; even when we go so far as to place the necklaces upon them, the women merely regard the trinkets with mild curiosity.

our little coup de ma?tre has fallen flat, so to 95speak. one of the dusky damsels relieves the situation for us. she is inclined to be forward, but this we do not think of censuring, for it saves the day. she says in very good malay, “ada rocco?” it is tobacco they want. luckily, we have a little with us and when it is distributed among the ladies, who immediately fill their mouths with it, diplomatic relations are opened. they seem ready to entertain almost any proposal, within reason, that we may make. we seize the opportunity to impress upon them that as long as we are their guests and are treated as such, each member of the tribe will receive his or her daily ration of tobacco. all this palaver, carried on as it is in the sign language, takes time, but the savages seem to catch our meaning with increasing facility. yes, we are getting along famously. we even essay the making of a photograph or two, but the cameras are regarded with suspicion, so we desist and let the matter rest until we shall have become better acquainted. there will, no doubt, be plenty of time for picture-taking.

96with a sweeping gesture, we indicate the rest of the kampong, and the chief, not to be outdone in generosity, gives us the key to the city by means of an all-embracing wave of his arm. this is as it should be, and we thank him, with a “we-expected-as-much” air, and proceed to inspect the entire place. in fact, the only one of us who does not seem to be quite at ease is moh. he is having a bad day.

twice we encounter stalwart warriors standing like sentinels, as though disdainful of concealment

the body is placed in a sitting position after being gaily decorated for the funeral