with the passing of the days our hosts forget the gloom caused by the death of the old man and resume their usual laughing, care-free demeanor, much to our relief. they spend hours in the shade of our tent, during which time we pick up many of their words,—enough, in fact, to enable us to converse in a limited way with them. curiously intermingled with the pure words of their somewhat limited vocabulary are many of either pure malay or malayan derivation, and the presence of these, we find, helps us greatly.

the hairdresser plaits long strands of raffia into the kinky wool of the kia kias

the shiny inner surface of a malay tobacco-box serves them as a mirror

117by writing all their words down phonetically and setting the meaning beside them, we are able to study the language, which is a surprisingly simple one. they have no writing and their means of counting is limited to the ten digits. all reckoning is done upon the fingers and when they run out of fingers they are hard put to it to continue. however, if the reckoning runs up to, say, thirty or forty, they count one another’s fingers and remember the names of those individuals included in the calculation. the task of remembering more than four participant pairs of hands would be beyond the power of their intellects.

at merauke we heard of the death, under mysterious conditions, of a swiss scientist who came to study these people about three years ago. with the memory of this incident fresh in our minds, we inquire casually concerning the white man reputed to have been eaten by them, but are met with blank looks or glances of suspicion. between ourselves, we decide that if it is humanly possible to do so we will find the remains of the unfortunate man, a martyr to scientific progress, and send his bones to his institution in switzerland. the demeanor of the natives makes us sure that they have guilty knowledge of his death, at least.

118pursuing the matter further, and after having won the confidence of one of the middle-aged men—whom, by the way, we have christened “intelligence”—we secure an admission that the man died in this very locality, though by what means intelligence will not divulge. after a good deal of discussion, and deep cogitation on his part, intelligence agrees to bring all the older men of the kampong to a conference in the afternoon, to discuss ways and means of finding the desired bones, which he says he thinks were buried somewhere in the jungle. he is very reticent, for he says the tuan at merauke sent soldiers to find the white man and killed many men when he found that the white man was dead. the only thing that moves intelligence to admit as much as he does is our story of how the man’s friends at home mourned his loss and how greatly they desire to have his bones to inter properly, according to the customs of their tribe.

intelligence leaves us, his head bowed in thought. the situation is a grave one and our story of the great mourning caused by the poor 119scientist’s death, coming so shortly after the death of a member of the tribe, sits heavily upon him. with all their savage characteristics, these primitive men seem to have within them the milk of human kindness. they are creatures of impulse.

while they are debating the thing among themselves, we go for a short excursion in the environs of the camp. in the course of conversations with intelligence we have learned that in this neighborhood a jesuit missionary formerly held forth, but that he, also, died, about the same time that the swiss lost his life. this is interesting, and we are reminded that these people who have been so very cordial to us are really eaters of men and will bear watching. our attitude toward them is one of firm superiority tempered with kindliness, but we are ever watchful for any signs of treachery. as long as the tobacco holds out our relations with them probably will be amicable enough. there is no danger of their trying to take it by force when it is given them gratis daily, and of course they 120do not know that our supply is not inexhaustible.

as we stroll along a scarcely discernible path that threads the jungle the mosquitos begin their accustomed attack, and we are thankful to reach a tiny clearing on which the creepers and obliterating growths of the primeval jungle are fast encroaching. when we finally get clear of the thicket and round a large clump of young cocoas, there appears to our astonished eyes a neat palm-thatched structure surmounted with a cross. this, then, is the former missionary’s little church, in which he gave up his life while trying to bring the light to these benighted people. for his pains he was eaten.

the door of the little building is closed, though not latched, and the windows are all tightly shut. we go inside and with eyes straining in the darkness try to make out the details of the interior. everything is just as the poor man left it. nothing has been touched. the soldiers who came to the place to avenge both 121his death and that of the scientist ordered that the natives whom they spared keep away from the place upon pain of another raid, and the black men have declared the place taboo. the church is tenanted now by countless bats, whose noisome bodies render the air fetid with their odor and whose wings almost touch us as they wheel to and fro, roused from their slumber by the opening of the door. their squeaking remonstrance at being thus disturbed makes the place eery,—like some abode of evil spirits of the nether world,—and we beat a hasty retreat to the sunlight of the clearing outside.

we sit down to rest a moment on a fallen trunk a few yards from the church and try to imagine the emotions of the man who, with total sacrifice of self, came alone to these people to do them only good according to his lights, and who in turn suffered the extreme penalty at their ungrateful hands. what his last thoughts on earth must have been and what he said are part of our conjectures. we find ourselves wondering if he 122was strong enough to say with his last expiring breath, “father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

mixed with our anger at the kia kias as we gaze upon the mute witness to their murderous proclivities, however, there comes pity for their ignorance, and we tell ourselves that their crime was due to savage ignorance and a natural hunting-instinct for the animal food their bodies crave. man-eating is their custom, and this is their country, and it is reasonable to expect that some lives must be sacrificed before they can be shown the error of their way,—error in our eyes, but not in theirs to whom the land belongs. we whites have become so accustomed to taking that which we desire from those not gifted with the power for sheer conquest which our cultural progression has produced and which gives us our feeling of superiority to others, that, filled with self-importance, we must needs seek lands afar belonging to others, farm them regardless of the owners’ remonstrances, and then add insult to injury by punishing these owners for continuing 123in their age-old practices. there are two sides to the question. true, there is no doubt that our civilization is the better,—for us. they have not found it so for them. laurence hope has said the creator, after molding one, sublimely perfect, “doubtless in some idle moment mixed the forces that fashioned me.”

our kodaks perpetuate the little church for us and we leave it with no regret, for it does not engender the most pleasant of thoughts. when we return to camp, we find that our intermediary, intelligence, has arranged for the conference earlier than was expected, and that the others are ready to gather at our pleasure. there is no time like the present, so we tell him to summon his clan that we may start the powwow.

we place our chairs under the shade of the fly at the rear of our tent and soon the older men begin to drift toward us. they seat themselves in a semicircle facing us and at a distance of ten or fifteen feet. when all are seated, intelligence begins a long harangue,—a torrent of 124words which fall from his lips so fast that they are wholly unintelligible to us. his discourse is received coldly by some of his fellows, but one or two—those who have seemed most friendly to us—take kindly to our plan, judging from the expression on their faces.

a hot debate ensues. after several hours of earnest palaver in which we take no part, intelligence turns to us and signifies that he would like us to speak on the subject. this we do, assuring them that the dutch government has no part in our plan, and that if they will deliver the bones of the swiss to us we will guarantee that no punishment whatever shall befall the members of the community. we draw as vivid a picture of the scientist’s grieving relatives as is possible with our limited vocabulary, and at length prevail upon the savage assembly to promise to bring the poor man’s bones to camp upon the morrow.

the deserted jesuit mission which formerly was the pride and hope of its unfortunate builder

in the early evening the women sit around on the copra-drying platforms and watch the sunset

125our apparent victory, has not, however, been achieved without the exchange of some very black looks among several of the kia kias. there are still a few who remain firm in their belief that this is some trick of the white man’s to make them incriminate themselves. upon the decision of the majority to hand over the remains to the white men, the meeting breaks up and all but intelligence leave for their respective quarters. he lingers to tell us that he, himself, will bring the bones in to-morrow afternoon. so grateful are we that we present him with a shiny trade hatchet and an american trench mirror. he departs with many thanks.

the request we have made has caused a stir in the kampong and the accustomed afternoon meeting in the shade of the grove back of the village does not take place. a few of the younger people gather there for their usual enjoyment of one another’s society, but the elders are all grouped about their doorways, earnestly discussing something. now and then speculative glances in our direction tell us that we are the chief topic of conversation. moh is distinctly uneasy.

in the very outer fringe of the grove, and 126directly back of our tent, there is a little knot of young men and women who are apparently very much interested in something which is screened from our view by the intervening bodies of the watchers. we do not wish to miss anything unusual, so we hasten over to see what is taking place. from the extreme absorption of the onlookers and the absence of the laughter and gaiety which usually attend these gatherings we know that something of moment is under way.

an amazing sight greets our eyes. lying at full length upon the ground is a young woman of perhaps eighteen years, undergoing what must be the most exquisite torture. ah, what woman will not endure to be in fashion! at work upon her quivering body is an ancient crone, who with a sharpened piece of shell is cutting deep cicatrices in the flesh of the abdomen. the girl undergoing the operation is bearing with stoic courage the pain it must cost her, though her face twists and her muscles contract in a spasmodic tremor each time the old woman gashes her. the artist is cutting a scar pattern, which 127is the highest type of personal adornment these people know. the cuts are made diagonally underneath the skin and to a depth of a full quarter of an inch, so that as each is made there is a flap of skin turned up which varies from a thin edge to a thickness equal to the full depth of the cut.

the poor girl looks as if she regrets having asked that the thing be done, but, having started, is afraid of ridicule unless she goes through with it. the others gaze upon her with varying expressions. some of the very young girls are palpably envious, while those whose bodies are similarly adorned are commiserating in demeanor; they know the pain the girl is suffering. the men look on with indifference, though they offer suggestions now and then as to how to enhance the beauty of the design. as each cut is made, a handful of dirt is scooped up from the ground and rubbed well into the wound, care being taken to fill the cut to its fullest depth.

eight cuts have been made when the girl decides that she can stand no more at the present 128and the old woman desists after carefully patting the edges of the wounds and applying broad, fresh green leaves to them as a dressing. these are held in place by thongs of kangaroo hide bound around the body. the purpose of the dirt rubbed into the wounds is to make them fester and thereby raise the great wales that are so admired by the kia kias.

as the girl rises stiffly to her feet, the men present look at us with approbative grins and nod their satisfaction. the decoration of this particular girl promises well, for the old woman who has been doing the work is acknowledged to be an artist at it, and one of the girls whose scars have long since healed displays those upon her body, calling to our attention proofs of the fine technique. she obligingly poses for our cameras and in return for her kindness we present her with an extra allowance of tobacco.

they are very proud of the scar-patterns

the weals caused by the infection of the cuts sometimes stand out nearly an inch from the surrounding flesh