Tawauyo had seen white magic which was very good for women and children. He had journeyed to a port and secured a box of it. That also had been stolen and at times the jungle flared with the magic lights and grew noisy with white magic worked by debbil-debbils. PossiWy they were white-man debbil-debbils, since they acted strangely as white men did, and danced to the sound of tunes in a box which all white men carry. To the questions of McTeague in pidgin and Tai Hoong, who revealed his amazing loiowledge of tribal jargon that night, Tawauyo said that life was scarcely worth living for his people. They dared not penetrate mazes of jungle rivers for terror of crocodiles that talked, or hunt on shore for fear of gray men of the woods who were half man anyway and acted as if only their strength was beast and in all else they were men.
The returning canoes, bearing Brigham and his cronies, put an end to the sorrowful complaint of Tawauyo. Drums purred and a dance was started: fermented palm juice added its potent fire to the lash of drums, beating, throbbing, purring into wild thongs of sound that seemed to leave weals on the flesh of McTeague. He saw black men leaping in demoniacal ecstasy, and Brigham of Bristol absorbing palm wine and ogling a young woman on the outer circle.
"Easy there," he cautioned. "We'd better be going. Chief," he apologized to Tawauyo; "a white man gets foolish on strong drink."
"Maybe buy wife," suggested Tawauyo. "Heap fine Mary make for wife catchem hut." A woman in the bleaching-hut, confined until her skin would be the color of smoky gold. And Brigham had heard.
"Trot her out," he demanded.
"None of that," roared Captain McTeague, but Brigham was striding after an old woman commanded to show him the bleaching beauty.
"Time to head for the schooner," McTeague announced, and enforced his command. In the boat Brigham ranted about the woman in the bleaching-hut until McTeague restrained an impulse to knock him overside for sharks to finish—for the lagoon held sharks. He mentioned his craving and Brigham laughed and began to howl a song—a maudlin music-hall ditty, but a fair baritone voice.
It was scarce ended when from the dark shroud of jungle gloom along shore, as if echoing Brigham, came a wide-throated roar of song, like a thunderous organ diapason gone mad:
"Maxwelton's ba-anks r-r-r bo-oney," it howled, then broke into speech: "Na-amin' a sliip fer-r-r A-annie La-aurie. . . ."
Then McTeague knew that the nightmare of a sickness that had once plunged him near death's door had not been a fever dream after all. That voice belonged to Red Murphy, a waterfront bum who served time for murder. And he and Tai Hoong and Brigham of Bristol had blundered into a lagoon haunted by the most terribly punished criminals the world held.
Worse than Dante's Inferno was this sentence of doom passed on Red Murphy and his pal, Tricky Turner. And this was the debbil-debbil worrying Tawauyo. McTeague wondered if it would not be an act of mercy to endthe doom of these two criminals. But he did not speak of it. For one thing, Tai Hoong was listening with alert interest; the other three white men were drunk, too far gone to question the leather quality of that jungle voice lifting a love song.
He lay awake in his berth for some time recalling vague memories of his sickness some years ago and the very bad dreams it brought. Then he decided it might be better to start at once for the open sea, give up this shrine business, and get out.
When sleep came it was heavy, dreamless, profound. He overslept,
