that reeled and swung in the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thin
undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about his waist and
descended to his knees. On his head was a battered Stetson, known to the
trade as a Baden-Powell. About his middle was strapped a belt, which
carried a large-calibred automatic pistol and several spare clips, loaded
and ready for quick work.

The rear was brought up by a black boy of fourteen or fifteen, who
carried medicine bottles, a pail of hot water, and various other hospital
appurtenances. They passed out of the compound through a small wicker
gate, and went on under the blazing sun, winding about among new-planted
cocoanuts that threw no shade. There was not a breath of wind, and the
superheated, stagnant air was heavy with pestilence. From the direction
they were going arose a wild clamour, as of lost souls wailing and of men
in torment. A long, low shed showed ahead, grass-walled and
grass-thatched, and it was from here that the noise proceeded. There
were shrieks and screams, some unmistakably of grief, others unmistakably
of unendurable pain. As the white man drew closer he could hear a low
and continuous moaning and groaning. He shuddered at the thought of
entering, and for a moment was quite certain that he was going to faint.
For that most dreaded of Solomon Island scourges, dysentery, had struck
Berande plantation, and he was all alone to cope with it. Also, he was
afflicted himself.

By stooping close, still on man-back, he managed to pass through the low
doorway. He took a small bottle from his follower, and sniffed strong
ammonia to clear his senses for the ordeal. Then he shouted, "Shut up!"
and the clamour stilled. A raised platform of forest slabs, six feet
wide, with a slight pitch, extended the full length of the shed.
Alongside of it was a yard-wide run-way. Stretched on the platform, side