Witch-Doctors | Page 2

table stood the servant as rigid as the flagpole. With
a lazy insolence which marked his movements, the lieutenant sipped
the café-cognac and smoked a cheroot, as if he were seated on the
terrace of the Café de la Paix. The brutality of the round skull,
emphasized by the cropped blonde hair, seemed at variance with the
boyish rotundity of the face and the small, but dominant, nose. Two
separate moustaches bristled so fiercely that they suggested sentries on
guard over the feminine softness of the lips. When he had finished zu
Pfeiffer arose languidly, lighted a fresh cigar, adjusted his helmet with
care, took a gold-mounted sjambok from his servant, and strode across

the square. The lines of his torso were so perfect that they suggested
artificial aid.
The orderly room was square and whitewashed; grass matting was
upon the floor, and high screened doors opened on to the north
verandah. Zu Pfeiffer sprawled in a swing chair before the office desk
placed at an oblique angle to the wall, encumbered with books and
papers. After tapping reflectively on a book cover with a polished nail
zu Pfeiffer's hand sharply struck the bell. Instantly a corporal appeared
at the farther door and stood as if petrified, black hand to black temple.
Zu Pfeiffer snapped instructions in Kiswahili without removing his
cigar. The man grunted, shot his hand away at right angles with as
much energy as if he were trying to knock down an elephant, and
vanished.
"Sergeant!"
"Ja, Excellence."
At the other door like another Jack-in-the-box appeared Sergeant
Schultz in exactly the same attitude. At a nod the sergeant melted into
the semblance of human movement: he drew aside a chair, selected a
certain document from a pile of them, and handed it to the lieutenant.
Zu Pfeiffer pushed a box of cigars across the table, lolled back with one
foot on the table, and began to peruse lazily. The sergeant retired
respectfully with the cigar to the outer office. A fly buzzed hopefully at
the mosquito wire. The tap of a typewriter sounded like some other
insect. On the hot air came the faint barks of a drill-sergeant on the
parade ground. From behind the building rose fitfully the murmur of
voices from a herd of natives squatted in the sun awaiting the opening
of the Court House. Leaves rustled largely under the Lieutenant's
fingers.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}
At length he pitched the report on to the table, carefully placed the butt
of his cigar in an ash-tray, lighted another, and disposed of the match
with equal care.
"Sergeant."

"Ja, Excellence!"
Zu Pfeiffer indicated a chair by a thrust of the chin. The sergeant sat.
Tapping the report with the highly polished and very long finger-nail of
the left hand, the lieutenant demanded:
"Who is the man who gave you this report?"
"Ali Ben Hassan, an Arab trader, Excellence."
"Trustworthy?"
"Ja, Excellence. He has done much work for us."
"Where?"
"On the Tanganika district, sub-division B II, Excellence. He brought
papers of first-class recommendation from the Kommandant."
"Ben Hassan speaks of one Sakamata, nicht wahr?"
"Ja, Excellence."
"Of what tribe is he?"
"Wongolo."
"A witch-doctor?"
"Ja, Excellence."
"He is here? Let him come in."
The sergeant rose, saluted and departed. Gutturals sounded lazily. The
sergeant reappeared and behind him shuffled a native. Clad only in a
dirty loin-cloth, his brown skin was wrinkled in scaly folds upon his
chest and belly; his face was like an ancient tortoise; the small
lack-lustre eyes were bloodshot and furtive; the limbs were almost
fleshless. He squatted upon the ground and with lowered lids appeared

to be absorbed in the contemplation of a white man's table leg. Zu
Pfeiffer regarded the man as one would a stray dog and nodded to the
sergeant, who sat down.
"Does he speak Kiswahili?"
"Nein, Excellence. Only his monkey speech."
"Why do you suppose that he is trustworthy?"
"Because, Excellence, his interests are with ours. There is no
competition. The Schweinhünde Engländer have no interest there--yet.
They are too busy with the Uganda railroad."
"Ja, ja. Again what is the tribal system there, King-God or----" The
lieutenant permitted a slight smile--"or Dis-established Church?"
"King-God, Excellence," replied Sergeant Schultz gravely.
"This fellow then is an apostate priest, nicht wahr?"
The sergeant noticed the movement of one of the sentry moustaches. A
twitch of the lips recognized his superior's pleasantry.
"Ja, Excellence."
Zu Pfeiffer stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and regarded
idly the dumb figure on the floor against the wall.
"We must have the Wongolo country, c'est entendu. Now what's your
opinion of the method, sergeant?"
"With due deference, Excellence," responded Sergeant Schultz, "I
propose that we advance and bring them to subjection in the usual
manner."
Zu Pfeiffer fingered a ring and stared out into the