Inside he found a large room in which were many Wieroos seated
before pedestals the tops of which were hollowed out so that
they resembled the ordinary bird drinking- and bathing-fonts so
commonly seen on suburban lawns. A seat protruded from each of
the four sides of the pedestals--just a flat board with a support
running from its outer end diagonally to the base of the pedestal.

As Bradley entered, some of the Wieroos espied him, and a dismal
wail arose. Whether it was a greeting or a threat, Bradley did
not know. Suddenly from a dark alcove another Wieroo rushed out
toward him. "Who are you?" he cried. "What do you want?"

"Fosh-bal-soj sent me here to eat," replied Bradley.

"Do you belong to Fosh-bal-soj?" asked the other.

"That appears to be what he thinks," answered the Englishman.

"Are you cos-ata-lu?" demanded the Wieroo.

"Give me something to eat or I'll be all of that," replied Bradley.

The Wieroo looked puzzled. "Sit here, jaal-lu," he snapped,
and Bradley sat down unconscious of the fact that he had been
insulted by being called a hyena-man, an appellation of contempt
in Caspak.

The Wieroo had seated him at a pedestal by himself, and as he sat
waiting for what was next to transpire, he looked about him at
the Wieroo in his immediate vicinity. He saw that in each font