"What name you sing out alla time?" he demanded.

"Him fella my brother belong me," was the answer. "Him fella die too
much."

"You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much," the white man
went on in threatening tones. "I cross too much along you. What name
you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brother belong you die dose up
too much. You fella finish sing out, savvee? You fella no finish sing
out I make finish damn quick."

He threatened the wailer with his fist, and the black cowered down,
glaring at him with sullen eyes.

"Sing out no good little bit," the white man went on, more gently. "You
no sing out. You chase um fella fly. Too much strong fella fly. You
catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty too much, bime bye
brother belong you all right. Jump!" he shouted fiercely at the end, his
will penetrating the low intelligence of the black with dynamic force
that made him jump to the task of brushing the loathsome swarms of flies
away.

Again he rode out into the reeking heat. He clutched the black's neck
tightly, and drew a long breath; but the dead air seemed to shrivel his
lungs, and he dropped his head and dozed till the house was reached.
Every effort of will was torture, yet he was called upon continually to
make efforts of will. He gave the black he had ridden a nip of trade-
gin. Viaburi, the house-boy, brought him corrosive sublimate and water,
and he took a thorough antiseptic wash. He dosed himself with