TIBERIUS SMITH
"His face was heavy and oblong, and every specie of cussedness that had ever attracted attention had carved its initials between his low forehead and sharp chin. His crease of a mouth was smiling, but his eyes blazed with a pure green lustre. They made me think of emeralds. We afterwards learned that in nationality he was a polyglot, containing the worst of all races; and every drop of blood in his miserable carcass sat up nights trying to devise some bit of deviltry that would cause the other corpuscles to blush with envy.
"As I was studying our host Tib flicked the ash from his anti-fever cheroot and sauntered up to him and stuck out his hand as if he expected to hear the chief say, 'Welcome home!' Instead of that, Feeney grabbed the palm of friendship in one black claw and with a hoot of rage held the old chap fast, while with his other talon he lifted a short axe.
"‘Don't make a move, Billy,' warned Tib, in a low voice, as with his free hand he reached in his pocket and produced his last cigarette and lighted it.
"The moral effect of this simple little act swept the chief off his feet for the moment, sir. He lowered his weapon with a grunt of chagrin, or wonder, and released my patron. It was lucky thus, as I was unarmed, all our guns, except our ammonia pistols, being in the boat. And I reckon if I had shot Feeney, Tib and I soon would have overtaken
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