TIBERIUS SMITH
fresh or salted. The meal nervously concluded, I managed to whisper to the chattel, 'What next, Bug?'
"‘Eat us like rucu,' he encouraged, the gray tints accumulating to a handsome majority in his face.
"‘Hope they choke,' growled Tib. Then, austerely, to the oldest ruffian, whom we took to be the mayor, 'I say, Massoit, what is?'
"Wogo butted in between a shiver and a shudder and played ping-pong with the talk. Then his lower jaw hung loosely in the breeze as he turned to us and assured, 'Si, señors. Eat us much like pira-rucu.'
"‘But tell 'em we've come to trade,' expostulated Tib.
"‘He asks what you got,' trembled Wogo.
"And as the chief laughed coarsely over this ironical query, and playfully kicked a tame tapir through the fire to evidence his appetite, Tib and I exchanged blank glances, and my patron screwed up his lips in perplexity.
"‘They'll never eat a blond, a cheap-haired blond, like you, Billy,' he mumbled, as they crowded us into a malocca.
"‘I don't blame you, old man,' I whispered. 'But if it only could have come in an accident, or a long, lingering illness—'
"‘Let's cogitate,' he broke in, brusquely, sinking down beside a bark parrot-cage.
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