Captain Kettle reflected. His gorge rose at this man, but the fellow
seemed to have some sort of authority in the village, and probably he
could settle the question of Nilssen's ailment with a dozen words. So he
swallowed his personal resentment, and, as civilly as he could, told the
complete tale as Nilssen had given it to him.

The trader missionary's face grew crafty as he listened. "Look here, you
want that old sinner Nilssen cured?"

"That's what I came here for."

"Well, then, give me the ju-ju, and I'll fix it up for you."

"The ju-ju's to be my fee," said Kettle. "I suppose you know something
about it? You're not the kind of man to go in for collecting valueless
curiosities."

"Nop. I'm here on the make, and I guess you're about the same. But I
wouldn't be in your shoes if the people in the village get to know that
you've a finger in looting their idol."

"Why?"

"Oh, you'll die rather painfully, that's all. Better give the thing up,
Captain, and let me take over the contract for you. It's a bit above
your weight."

Kettle's face grew grim. "Is it?" he said. "Think I'm going to back down
for a tribe of nasty, stinking, man-eating niggers? Not much."