Some bushmen had bewitched him; he knew the fellow, and would
quickly make "bob come up his side:" already two whites had
visited him with a view of shooting gorillas; both had failed; it
was "shame palaver!"

This might have been true, but it certainly was not the whole
truth. I can hardly accept M. du Chaillu's explanation, that the
Mpongwe, who attack the beasts with trade muskets and pebbles,
will not venture into the anthropoid's haunts unless certain of
their white employer's staunchness. What could that matter, when
our Nimrod had an excellent weapon in his hand and a strong party
to back him? Very likely Forteune was tired with walking, and
five dollars per shot made the game not worth the candle. Again,
perhaps the black diplomatist feared to overstock the market with
Njinas, or to offend some regular customer for the sake of an
"interloper." In these African lands they waste over a monkey's
skin or a bottle of rum as much intrigue as is devoted to a
contested election in England.

I then asked the guide if my staying longer would be of any use?
He answered with a simple negative. Whilst the Utangani remained
the Mbunji (spell) would still work, but it would at once be
broken by our departure, and he would prove it by sending down
the first-fruits. This appeared to me to be mere Mpongwe
"blague," but, curious to say, the sequel completely justified
both assertions. He threw out a hint, however, about certain
enemies and my "medicine," the arsenical soap; I need hardly say
that it was refused.