"What happened to my hand?"
"They wanted an ornament on one finger and took it with the hand. I selected the shapeliest hand I could find, but of course it will not match your own hand. In a month you should have a serviceable substitute for the hand you lost. And you will observe later that your new hand belonged to a personage of importance whose body the remaining Malays viewed with marked respect."
McTeague swallowed hard and through gritting teeth remarked: "A Papuan chieftain welded on that ring red-hot, and because I didn't squeal I was saved from a New Guinea cooking-pot."
Then his eyes closed. More nauseating than ether fumes was the thought of wearing a native's hand in place of his own. He wanted to tear it off, but Tai Hoong gave him no opportunity. He was in attendance night and day, and later assisted Captain McTeague on deck to take command.
The Annie Laurie was beached on a sheltered shore and her crew were working on repairs to her hull. News of the shipwreck had traveled, and natives came looking for trade and straightway caught the interest of Brigham and his two drunken cronies. Captain McTeague paid no attention to Brigham those days. It was not until the schooner was repaired and they were ready to set out, under canvas (since there was no way of welding a propeller shaft in the jungle), that Brigham revealed what kept him sober, interested and busy during those weeks along shore.
The man was boastful, blatant, sickingly proud of the number of human skins nicely cured, pliant and soft as doeskins. At sight of them, McTeague swore large words, but Tai Hoong was interested, even to the point of drawing Brigham out on the source of supply.
"Native woman," announced Brigham. "And as nice a color now as when I saw her running into the jungle." He halted abruptly, aware that it was impolitic to confide the details of his selection and bargaining to anyone. Tai Hoong's shapely hands stroked the skin softly. His eyes did not lift; not so much as a flicker of more than casual interest was betrayed.
"Leather, like fur, must be taken from prime animals," said Brigham. "There ought to be a market for this stuff. Seems to me I heard of some woman making her will that her skin was to be cured to make the cover of a book of poems her lover had written to her. Nice little sentiment, that, though a Chinaman wouldn't appreciate the delicacy of it."
"No. Possibly not," agreed Tai Hoong. "The skin is fine of texture, finer than this one, for instance." He held up a second horridly suggestive dark skin.
"Huge giant of a fellow, that one—fought like a tiger before they slugged him. Did no end of damage. But they got even." And Brigham smiled. "Flayed him alive. It's a wonder you didn't hear him yell."
Tai Hoong straightened and rolled a brown paper cigarette deftly. His nostrils emitted streams of smoke. Then he strode forward to where Captain McTeague bent over charts and studied a neat sum of figures.
"I should be glad to confide in you, Captain McTeague, that my reason for coming with you and Mr. Brigham of Bristol was not alone the very high salary he paid me."
"It isn't news to me," agreed Captain McTeague.
"You know, of course, that Mr. Brigham has set his mind on visiting the shrine at N'Yeng Sen. I am interested enough to see that this goal is attempted, at least. And perhaps I could assist you in finding it."
McTeague studied the face of Tai Hoong.
"Something happened," he announced, "I had an idea you were on
