TIBERIUS SMITH
the flat-faced audience, praying in vain to their totem-poles.
"‘Da, da, da,' gurgled the baby, as its custodian rolled it into the ring so as to gain freedom of motion to beat her head against the hideously carved wooden pillars.
"‘Six, seven,' added Tib, remorselessly, stooping quickly and picking up the crowing purse.
"‘Faster, faster! Give him the count in a rush!' I screamed, entirely losing my head.
"‘Eight, nine,' the old chap called, now counting more slowly in rebuke to me, thus giving the prostrate chief a fair chance to rally.
"And the tribe, thinking he was pumping more evil-spring tonic into its leader, began supplicating him with a medley of sounds to quit his magic.
"‘Ten—and out!' cried Tib, hugging the baby close.
"‘Down and out! Hooray!' I yelled, cutting an intricate pigeon-wing, much to the kid's felicitation.
"‘Out?' groaned Mr. McBurr, thickly, staggering to his feet. 'Say, white man, what did it? What brought the darkness?' And in awe and with something akin to reverence he lightly stroked the cluster of horns on the top of his head. For the trio of blows had caused as many little mountain peaks to push up the coarse, black hair.
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