belted a huge knife; in his other hand he carried his battle-axe. I mean
just that--his battle-axe. We had seen such things on tapestries or in
museums, but did not dream that they still existed out of captivity.
This was an Oriental looking battle-axe with a handle three feet long, a
spike on top, a spike out behind, and a half-moon blade in front. The
babu had with a little of his signal paint done the whole thing, blade
and all, to a brilliant window-shutter green.

As soon as we had recovered our breath, we asked him very politely the
reason for these stupendous preparations. It seemed that it was his
habit to take a daily stroll just before sunset, "for the sake of the
health," as he told us in his accurate English.

"The bush is full of bad men," he explained, "who would like to kill me;
but when they see this axe and this knife they say to each other, 'There
walks a very bad man. We dare not kill him.'"

He marched very solemnly a quarter-mile up the track and back, always in
plain view. Promptly on his return he dived into his little back room
where the periodic tinkling of his praying bell for some time marked his
gratitude for having escaped the "bad men."

The bell ceased. Several times he came to the door, eyed us timidly, and
bolted back into the darkness. Finally he approached to within ten feet,
twisted his hands and giggled in a most deprecating fashion.

"What is the use of this killing game?" he gabbled as rapidly as he
could. "Man should not destroy what man cannot first create." After
which he giggled again and fled.