Adventure, February 1917 — page 80: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

78 very scolding wife who was always shouting and storming at him, so one day he hit her on the head with a pineapple stone club, not meaning to do her any harm, but being annoyed at the continual interruptions. He explained it all to Pups. He said it made him ‘too much wild,’ and ‘he no savvy what he do.’ And then, when he saw she was dead, it seemed to him that there was n@ use wasting so much good food, so he cailed in the village, and they had a party, with dancing and songs, and finished up every bit. But of course Pups, though he sympathized with the provocation, could not allow that sort of thing. So we hunted him out and took him to Port Moresby for trial.” ‘And I suppose he was hanged?” “No, Captain Campbell, the Govern- ment does not hang a Papuan for killing his wife. He had five years in jail, and after- wards he was nurse to the jailer’s little boys for two or three years. He was a very good nurse. But I think I smell that fire again, so perhaps we had better say nothing more at present. You see the boys are going quietly. Do you think you——” ne sailor nodded. There was no more talk. The two whites, followed by their boys, crept through the jungle as silently as snakes, stopping now and then to make sure of the direction of the fire. It was getting very late. the forest depths, though in rare openings among the heavy trees they could see the fire of sunset still lying on the far-up summits of banyan, coconut, and mighty cottonwood. The giant green frogs of the jungle were starting their goat-like belling among the swampy places; verdigris and violet parrots flew squawking past; once a flying - fox, black, silent-winged, obscene, fled like an embodied nightmare across a darkening glade. If they were going to camp, it was full time. But that cooking fire must be traced before rest and food could be thought of. Who knew what it might be? Murua crept as swiftly and as quietly as the natives themselves, but she was no better at the game than the tall sailor beside her. Captain Campbell had grad- uated in the West African bush, and there _ was not much in the way of tropical scout- craft that he did not know. The girl felt The light had begun to die in. Adventure her admiration rise. Was there anything he could not do? “T smell it now,” whispered Campbell; the reek of the fire was growing plain. “‘We must be near,” whispered Murua in reply, and paused for a moment. They listened. Then Campbell, with his sea-trained lungs, let out a call that tore the forest like a rocket. 6é Ahoy!” “What is it?” asked Murua, straighten- ing up, and stepping out. - It was clear that Campbell had decided no native was in question. “Why, we’ve crossed their track. Didn’t you see the prints of boots, fresh as can be, and the cigaret end—gilt cardboard — just now?” Murua had not seen. She had been too busy admiring Campbell’s bush-craft to remember her’ own. “Tt’s the lot we’re after—the Slades and their boys. They must have got through all right. Ahoy!’’. This time a faint ‘Cooee!” replied. “Slade,”? said Campbell with a_ hold- cheap accent. “I suppose the woman is with him, or he wouldn’t be down on the coast.” “Mrs. Slade is probably in his company,” said Murua a little coolly. She thought Campbell’s manner scarcely respectful to Edith, but could not guess why he spoke so. And for the moment, a wind of coldness blew across her liking for the man who had come by the steamer. For the first time—not for the last—Edith had come between. *‘Cooee!”” came again, louder and nearer. “That beggar can sing out,” said Camp- bell. “Voice of a bull. He a singer like your Harold?” ‘Please, Captain Campbell—he is as- suredly not my Harold, and I should not desire him to be. No, Mr. Slade does not sing, or very little. I havean idea he thinks it effeminate. inate man.” . “Mrs. Slade doesn’t seem to be par- ticularly effeminate either,’’ said Campbell. “I think you don’t like her, Captain Campbell, but I can’t think why. Have you heard anything against her from that batrachian little basilisk, Harold?” “Tf you mean he’s a toad, you aren’t so far out,” evaded Campbell: he was not going to be drawn by the little girl with the Gomichoo S He is not at all an effem- — (EO)