text:
The Tucandeira

AKE care, senhor!

Lift your hand from the rail! Quick!

Now you are safe. You did not see that big black ant crawling toward you, but you would soon have felt him. You would not have slept at all tonight, for your whole arm would have been full of keen, throbbing pain. Let me knock him to the deck and step on him. There, now he can do no harm.

He is a tucandeira—the biggest, fiercest and most terrible ant to be found in all our Brazilian jungle. My foot has smeared him, but he must be an inch and a half long, and you can guess how powerful his jaws were. Yet his bite, bad as it is, is not so much to be dreaded as the torment that comes afterward—a maddening pain caused by the poison he throws into your flesh.

What this poison may be I do not know; but I do know it is so strong that some of the wild Indians use tucandeiras, along with certain roots and bark, to make the tips of darts and arrows deadly. I know too that many people say the bites of four of these ants will kill a man.

Yet I believed that it would take more than four of them to destroy the life of a strong man. You know how it is—one man may die from a thing that would only hurt another. And—well, let me tell you of something I once saw with my own eyes.

I WAS afloat in the flood-time, as I am now. But I was not sitting on the deck of a fine steamer like this, nor was I on my way down this great Amazon, with nothing to do but smoke and talk. Instead I was in a canoe, among the wild hills of the upper Javary region, speeding back toward the headquarters of old Coronel Nunes, my employer.

With me was a young comrade named Pedro, a rubber-worker like myself, who had been out with me on a long roving trip. We had met rough experiences, and now we had little food, few cartridges, and only one rifle; so that we did not wish to lose any time in reaching the end of our journey.

But we were not to end our trip as soon as we hoped to. Delay was not only waiting for us—it was coming to meet us.

Ahead of us was a rather nasty bend in the little flooded river we were following—a place where the water swirled against a steep cliff and was turned sharply away in a new direction. The stream had been washing against this cliff for so many years that it had eaten the stone inward, and the upper part now hung out over the current.

Under it the water sucked and boiled and whirled, making a place where it would be easy to capsize and hard to get out. We remembered it well, having had some difficulty there when we came up, and decided to go around it as fast as we could.

Just as we were making the turn, Pedro, up in the bow, yelled sharply. Another yell blended with his. Something struck us a thumping, glancing blow. We heeled over so suddenly that I almost went overboard. But the canoe stopped tilting, and I saved myself by a grab at its higher edge. Then we went whirling and bumping along the face of the cliff until an eddy swept us clear.

We were afoul of another canoe. It had struck us slantwise, slid along our side, and nearly tipped itself over as well as us. Both Pedro and the other man had done the same thing—seized the other's gunwale to save his own craft; and now, while their grip held, we were locked together as if by steel hooks. That was all that saved either boat.

Luckily our dugout was a stout one with solid sides, and the grinding against the rock did no real harm. As soon as we found we were not wrecked we did the usual thing—blamed the other man. I asked him if he was blind, and Pedro wanted to know if he thought this was his own private river. He promptly told us both to go to the devil.

He said it, though, with a little twitch of the lips, as if the whole thing were a joke. Then he added:

“Before we start expressing opinions as to each other's ancestry and so on, let's get ashore and pump ship. Then we can bawl each other out at our leisure.”

That was sense, for both of us had taken in much water when we tipped. So we headed for the other shore, ran into a small hollow between hills, got out, and turned the water out of our boats. This was easy enough for us two, but harder for the stranger; for he was alone and had a good deal of stuff stowed away which had to be taken out first.

He asked no help, and at first we offered none. Then, knowing the collision was an accident, we grew ashamed of ourselves, and I stepped toward him to give him a hand at his work.

He straightened and looked me in the eye, and I stopped as suddenly as if he had drawn a gun. He had made no threatening move—though his right thumb was hooked over his belt, and below that hand hung a long revolver—nor had he said anything. It was his look that halted me; a cool, piercing look that warned me not to come too close.

He was a big man, as tall and straight as Pedro, and even wider across the chest. His hair, his pointed beard, and his straight eyebrows were so black that they seemed to shine, and his dark eyes also appeared to gleam as he watched me. His skin, though, was not swarthy. Without his healthy tan he would have been very fair.

I saw all this in a glance, and saw also why he held me off. We were strangers, who had come upon him suddenly, nearly thrown him overboard, and spoken in ugly fashion. More than that, we had recently been in fights, and bore some marks of them in plain sight. We were unshaven and ragged, and probably looked hard and rough.

He was not at all afraid, but he was wary, and I could not blame him. I recalled now that since he landed he had not once turned his back to us. He was no fool.

“If we can help you, senhor, we will gladly do so,” I told him. “We are not so bad as we look, and we do not want anything of yours. We are seringueiros of Coronel Nunés, who haye been out on a foolish cruise and are now returning as fast as we can. Probably you have heard of the coronel.”

His eyes seemed to bore holes in me while I talked. Now he nodded.

“Are you Lourenço or Pedro?” he asked.

“Lourenço, senhor,” I told him, much astonished. “My comrade is Pedro. How did you know us?”

“What is your last name?”

“Moraes,” said I.

He nodded again, smiled, and unhooked the thumb from his belt.

“The coronel told me about you,” he explained. “I've just spent a few days at his place. He said you fellows were out here somewhere, though he had no idea where you might be. You sure are a hard-looking pair of brigands, I'll say. But I might have expected that, after what the coronel said.”

“What did he say, senhor?” I grinned.

“He said you were a couple of rambling scamps who were quite likely to go poking into if you thought you would find it interesting. And he said if you did go there the devil would have to step lively or get his tail twisted.”

We all laughed.

“I am afraid the coronel made you think us to be eaters of fire,” said Pedro. “We are really peaceable men. Are you American, senhor, or English?”

“Half and half. My name's Locke. First name, Douglas. Ancestry, English and Scotch. Born in England, raised in the States. Been hopping all around the world for the last ten years, and got so used to moving that I couldn't stop now if I wanted to. I don't know where I'm going, and I'm here because I'm here. Now if you gents want to lend a hand with this bally tub I'll let you.”

SO we helped him remove his equipment and drain the boat. It was a big craft, and almost too heavy for one man to handle—indeed, a smaller man than he could not have managed it at all in swift water. We found, too, that it was quite heavily loaded, and that he seemed to have much more food and other things than he needed. This appeared to be poor judgment; but after we finished the work, squatted and smoked, and told each other more of ourselves, we found that he had good reason for a large boat and many supplies.

He had come from the Ucayali, and intended to go in this craft all the way down the Amazon, paddling up any tributary stream where he thought he might find anything strange and new. Before leaving the Ucayali country he had been scouting about between that river and the Huallaga for a big company which intended to apply for a great oil concession there. This he had done until he tired of that region, when he outfitted this boat, hired Indian paddlers, and started on his long journey of more than two thousand miles.

As the Indians would go only a certain distance from their homes, he had changed crews several times, and the last change had been a bad one. At Loreto he had been able to get only two—“bad actors,” as he called them, who carried knives. When he decided to turn southward and explore this region the Loreto men became surly, and the farther they went the uglier they grew. Finally, two days before he met us, they tried to kill him. So after that he had to paddle alone.

He did not say what had become of those two cutthroats, and we did not ask. He saw us glance at his revolver, and he laughed, showing a double row of big white teeth.

“Say, I like you jiggers!” he said. “You know when not to ask questions. You've knocked around some yourselves.”

We nodded. Then we told of what we had seen and done here on this wild river. We spoke of caves of vampires where we had been in danger of death; of a crazed Indian woman who lived in a hollow tree and poisoned all who came near it by thorns set. in the ground; of a human ant-eater who lived with a monkey, dug gold, and killed three men who had shot that monkey and would have taken the gold. We told of savages who shrank men's heads, and of an old Scotchman in armor who had led us into battle against them.

We described how we had fought a whole village of drunken caboclos in order to free a girl from a cage where she was kept by her brutal father. Last, we spoke of a wonderful voice we had heard singing in the night beside a bay full of fireflies, and how we had found the singer to be a murderess.

“I'll say you gents have had some trip,” said Senhor Locke, “or else you have the finest imaginations I've met up with.”

“Do you mean, senhor, that we are liars?” Pedro asked softly.

“Ho ho! Not at all, hombre. Loosen up your grip on that rifle. Don't go on the prod until somebody says something. And let me give you a friendly tip: Start anything with me and I may bite your face plumb off. I'm hasty that way.”

“It would take strong jaws to do that.”

“Which same I have.”

He grinned again, and a devil danced in his dark eyes. “Always pleased to demonstrate.”

And he reached his left hand to a bush beside him, put a branch as thick as a finger into his mouth, and bit. Then he spat out a piece of wood.

I picked it up. It was cut through as if by a knife.

“Easy!” he laughed. “Try it yourself.”

Pedro tried. He stepped over to the same bush and bit the same branch. He bit so hard that I could see the veins in his temples swell. Then he ground his teeth. Finally, angered, he yanked at the bush.

“Don't tear it up by the roots,” the black-bearded man snickered. “Don't chew it, either. Just bite.”

Pedro let go, spat out shreds of bush, and rubbed a bleeding lip. The branch was deeply dented, but not bitten off.

“Your jaws are better than mine,” he admitted.

“Quite so. Let's see you try this one.”

Rising, he stepped over to a tree with low limbs, picked one at the height of his mouth, clipped off some leaves with a knife, and set his teeth into the clear space. Then he lifted his feet from the ground and hung there, held up by the grip of his jaws.

For a minute or two he stayed in that position before dropping his feet. As he let go he said easily:

“It's really harder than the other. It gets your neck muscles too, you see.”

“I see,” said Pedro. “And I am not foolish enough to try it. I may want to eat again after a while, and how could I do it with a broken jaw and no teeth? Por Deos, senhor, you can bite like a tucandeira!”

“I happen to be good at it,” he said, as we turned back toward the canoes. “Probably you have some stunt of your own that would make me look foolish. But it isn't gun-play, old timer, so don't— chkk!”

He choked and stumbled sidewise. I caught a glimpse of something around his neck. Then something flicked down past my eyes and yanked at my stomach so hard that I fell backward.

I turned as I fell, trying to put one hand to the ground and draw my machete with the other. But my arms were fastened to my body. I fell flat. Shrill yells sounded. Living bodies jumped on me. Something warm and heavy struck my head, forced my face into the dirt, and held it there.

SHOTS cracked out—six fast shots, followed by clicks of an empty gun. The weight on my head rolled off and thumped down beside me. I tried to heave myself up, but could not. So I twisted my face upward and looked.

Beside me was a naked Indian, lying very quiet. He had been the weight on my head—had sat on it until shot off. I tried to squirm over farther, but the other men holding me forced me down. All I could see was a mass of bush and a big bare foot that stepped within an inch of my nose, then lifted and disappeared. I could hear other feet swishing around me and sounds of a struggle—gasps and blows. Then everything was quiet except for grunting voices.

Strong hands forced my own hands up behind my back and tied my wrists. I felt my machete drawn from my belt. The men on me got off. I scrambled to my knees and then to my feet.

Pedro and Senhor Locke were on the ground, both tied. The American's face was red and bloated from choking, but he was still trying to fight. One booted foot shot up and caught a savage in the groin, and the man yelped and fell backward. But others jumped on his legs again and pinned them down, and he could only wrench his shoulders uselessly.

I started toward him, but stopped short, held by the rope around my stomach. Then I looked around at the men who had caught us.

They numbered about a dozen, and, for barbaros, they were fine-looking men. They were of medium height, well muscled, beardless, very smooth-skinned, and naked except for belts and mats of woven fibers and bark. Their faces were grim, but not so brutal as those of many wild men I had seen.

This cheered me, for I thought they probably were not cannibals. So, having been in the hands of barbaros before without suffering any serious harm—though that was mostly because I was lucky enough to escape in time—I decided to put on a cheerful face and make the best of it.

“You had better stop fighting, Senhor Tucandeira,” I said.

Why I called him Tucandeira instead of Locke I do not know—the name came naturally from my tongue.

“We are helpless, and we may get better treatment by not resisting further now. Later on we may have a chance to fight again.”

He coughed and made a hoarse noise, trying to talk. Soon he managed to make his throat work as it should.

“Roped!” he snorted. “Roped and hogtied! We're a bunch of bally short-horns, I'll say! But I salivated a couple of 'em anyhow. Didn't hit you too, did I?”

I told him no. Glancing around, I saw two of our captors dead on the ground and a third holding a bleeding shoulder.

“Glad of it. They had a hangman's hold on my neck and I had to shoot blind. Hullo, I winged another in the shoulder! Not so bad—three hits out of six shots, and me being lynched at the moment. Now it's their turn, and I reckon they'll make us prance around some, what?”

“If you mean that they will torture us, I do not think so,” I assured him. “Our Indians usually do not torture, but kill quickly.”

Then I grinned, though I did not feel very funny, and added:

“You came here to see things, senhor. Now you are seeing them.”

Whether he answered I not know. One of the barbaros, who seemed to be the leader, stepped in front of me and looked me in the face. He had big staring eyes, and in them was a queer expression which I could not read.

For what seemed a very long time he stood there looking at me without once blinking. I stared straight back. At length I smiled and spoke to him, asking him what he meant to do with us.

He did not understand. I tried again and again, speaking slowly in' Portuguese and Spanish, then in the Tupi lengoa geral, and finally using bits of other Indian dialect I had picked up at different times. The first two meant nothing to him, and he scowled as if he did not like their sound. The Indian words made his face brighten, but I saw that he did not understand these either.

As my hands were tied, I could not make signs with them, and thus I had no way at all of talking with him. So I turned to Pedro.

“I have tried everything I know,” I said. “Can you speak any tongue I have not used?”

Pedro, who was sitting quietly and watching, began to grunt and click his tongue in some sort of strange language. The big-eyed leader left me and went to him. Soon he made several noises as if trying to answer. Pedro grunted away more rapidly, but the wild man was silent. Finally he turned away.

“I thought he understood, but he does not,” said my comrade. “I did not understand him.”

The leader said something to his men. One of them, holding the noose of twisted fibers around my body, pulled on it and moved his head toward the American. We stepped over beside Senhor Locke. Pedro and another wild man came also, and we three prisoners stood there in a row, each held in a tight noose. The other barbaros picked up everything belonging to us, and four of them also lifted the two dead men by shoulders and feet. The ropes tugged at us again, and we filed away into the bush.

Noticing that they were carrying their dead, I guessed that we would not go far. I was partly right. We went only a short distance between the hills before we stopped and all the burdens were laid on the ground. But we had not reached any place where we were to stay.

Several of the men picked up the two bodies and went away. The rest of us waited. After a time the absent barbaros returned without the dead men. We fell into line once more, and now the real march began.

ALL the rest of that day we trudged on through the jungle. Nobody spoke. There was little use in talk, since we had no idea of what lay ahead and could not learn anything from our captors.

I noticed that the wild men did not seem very hostile toward Pedro and me, but that they treated Senhor Locke more roughly. If we stumbled, nothing came of it. If he stumbled, the wild man holding his rope yanked savagely at it; and every time the others looked at him they scowled. This, I thought, was because he had killed two of their mates and crippled a third. But I was to learn that there was another reason for it—a reason much older and born in them.

At last we stopped for the night. Then Senhor Locke spoke.

“What do you think of these people?”

We told him we did not know what to think; that they were not like any wild people we had ever met, and we could not guess why we were led on instead of being killed.

“I can answer that last part of it,” he said. “They're taking us to their chief, I'll bet. Old Googoo-Eyes yonder is the head of the party, but he doesn't act like a heap big Injun chief and they don't treat him like one. I notice they seem to have it in for me in particular. Any idea why?”

We had no idea.

“Well, I'm getting a hunch. Guess I'll play it and see how it works.”

The one he called Googoo was standing near, listening and looking at him unpleasantly. Senhor Locke spoke to him slowly in a tongue I never had heard. An astonished expression came into the leader's face. After staring a minute he answered.

The face of the Tucandeira wrinkled as if he did not quite understand, but he spoke again. Again Googoo replied. Others of the barbaros came closer and stood looking much interested.

I saw that the American had hit on a language that meant something to them. He grinned, squatted, and moved his head for Googoo to do likewise. Then he talked more in the same slow, careful way.

The talk went on for some time. I could not get any hint of what they said, or even of what tongue they spoke—it meant nothing at all to me. I could perceive, though, that they were having no easy time of it, and that each often had to repeat what he had said. Finally the Indian shook his head, said something more, arose and left us.

“Blessed is he who playeth a hunch,” mused the Tucandeira. “Fellow-pilgrims, I have broken through the wall between them and us. They speak a sort of Quichua.”

We stared and said nothing.

“You no savvy Quichua? It's the language that was spoken in Peru in the days of the Incas, before the Spaniards came. For that matter, it's still used—there are oodles of Quichuans scattered around the country. Some of them are quite civilized and some are not. These jiggers are emphatically not.

“There were all kinds of them even in Inca times, including a lot of independent chaps over here in the woods who wouldn't let the Incas themselves boss them. Maybe our chums here are some of that bunch, or perhaps they are descendants of the Incas who lit out for the timber after the conquest and sort of backslid.

“Anyhow, the language they speak is either very good or very bad Quichua—I don't know which, because all the Quichua I know is some I picked up over in the montaña, and it may be rotten. I couldn't get very close to them, but I learned two pertinent things—that they hate Spaniards, and that I'm out of luck.”

“In what way do you lack luck, senhor?” I asked.

“They think I'm a Spaniard. My hair, eyes, and beard are so black they won't believe I'm anything else. Can't blame them for that—I've known Spaniards themselves to make the same mistake.

“These jaspers have been hating Spaniards for nearly four hundred years, and now they've caught a goat. Weather for tomorrow—unsettled, probably squalls.”

“But can you not tell them you are American?” suggested Pedro.

“Sure. I did. They don't even know what North America is! They're bally boobs from away back. I'm a Spaniard to them, and that's all there is to it. But cheer up! You fellows are not in the same boat with me. They seem to realize that you're different—probably they know a Brazilian when they see him. You'll probably get a better deal.”

“You have it wrong, Senhor Locke,” Pedro said stiffly. “We are in your boat. We shall stay in it until we all get out or all go down. Am I right, Lourenço?”

I said, rather warmly, that he was. And the Tucandeira at once told us that we were a pair of fools.

“If you get a chance, beat it,” he urged. “You don't owe me anything. I got you into this, anyhow. If I hadn't bumped you and brought you ashore you'd be away down the river now. Take care of yourselves, and don't bother about me.”

“Fools we may be, but not cowards,” retorted Pedro. “We three are partners until this thing ends. Now say no more about that. Where are they taking us?”

“As I said before, I like you jiggers,” laughed Locke. “I don't know where we're going, but we get there tomorrow. I asked Googoo to untie our hands, but he refused. Suppose we may as well try to sleep a while, what?”

WE DID sleep as well as we could. To me it seemed that the night would never end, for my wrists were so firmly tied that I did not rest comfortably. When day came again I saw that my companions also were hollow-eyed, and we all were stiff when we got up.

“I hate to ask any favors of that goggle-eyed billiken,” grumbled Senhor Locke, “but I'm mortally tired of these bush handcuffs.”

“Bite them off,” smiled Pedro.

“Believe me, I would if I could get at 'em—and then I'd spit 'em into his face. But it takes some contortionist to get his teeth around to the small of his back, and I'm no boneless wonder. I say, Googoo old chappie, come here a minute. I want to kiss you good morning.”

Googoo did not know what he said, of course, but he saw us looking at him and came closer. The American spoke again in the Quichua language. The Indian scowled, but slowly nodded. After searching us and taking everything from our pockets, he called another wild man, who came with my machete and cut the cords on our wrists.

Our hands dropped to our sides like lumps of wood. We moved our arms, bent our wrists, and worked our fingers to make the blood run more freely. While we did this Googoo spoke in a warning tone.

“He says we shall soon reach the end of this hike,” said the Tucandeira, “and that if we try to fight or run we shall be killed. Let's not start anything. I'm agog to see what sort of dump we're headed for.”

He and the leader talked again, and his black brows lifted.

“The plot thickens. Somewhere ahead of us is a female woman, and she's going to have something to say about us. Dog-gone the bally luck! Rudyard was right.”

“Who is Rudyard?” I asked him.

“Rudyard Kipling, a fellow who sometimes writes poems. When he does he says a mouthful. A while ago he said that 'the female of the species is more deadly than the male.' He said two mouthfuls that time. A squaw is worse than a buck eight days in the week. I told you I was out of luck.”

Googoo made another set of noises. Locke frowned and made him repeat. When the Indian had spoken three times the American shook his head.

“I don't get you at all, old kid. Sorry I didn't study my Quichua more.”

Patiently the Indian talked with his hands. He pointed to the hair and eyes of us in turn, then shook his head. After that he pointed to his own hair and eyes, and again shook his head.

“Something about the woman and hair and eyes. Guess he means she hasn't any. Old as the hills and blind as a bat.”

Then he laughed.

“Say, can you fellows cough like a jaguar?”

For answer Pedro made a noise so much like a jaguar that we all jumped.

“Fine! Say, we'll fix the old she-devil before she can think up any dirty work to put on to us. If she's blind she can't see us, of course. You fellows make a racket like jaguars, I'll hiss like a snake—and she'll drop dead. Very simple, what?”

We laughed. Googoo scowled.

“He knows we're laughing about the woman, and it makes him sore,” said the senhor. “Better wipe off our grins, maybe. I don't want my hands tied again, and I'd rather not get rough until I've had a look at what's ahead. As I said before, I'm all agog.”

We ate and resumed our tramp. Each of us still was held by the noose around his body, and barbaros with clubs watched us closely as we traveled on. The way led through the same broken country, but the trees were big and the undergrowth thin, so that we walked easily. At last we heard dogs barking, and our captors pushed on a little faster toward the noise.

Soon after this we came into a cleared place where houses stood. I had expected to see a big maloca, or tribal house, where all slept together; but there was none. Instead there were small houses of mud all around the clearing with a larger one in the middle. Men, women, children and dogs came to look at us as we passed, but none of them crowded us except the dogs, and a few kicks taught them to keep away.

We went straight on toward the big house in the center. A few feet from its low door we stopped.

Our guard laid all our property except our weapons in a heap on the ground. Googoo swung up to the doorway, halted outside, and spoke. A man's voice answered.

Googoo stepped back and gave an order to the men holding our ropes. The nooses were taken away and we stood unbound. Then we all waited.

A figure appeared in the opening, stooped, came through and straightened up. We saw at once that this was the chief. He was a man of middle age, taller than any of the others, straight as a blow-gun, steady-eyed and calm of manner.

Like his men, he wore only belt and mat, but these were broader and woven of finer material than theirs, and decorated with small bright feathers. His face was ornamented with two big blue feathers set into his nose, slanting upward and outward like a strange mustache.

He stood quietly, with arms folded, looking at each of us in turn while Googoo talked. His gaze rested longest on the Tucandeira, and his eyes grew narrow. He, too, believed our companion to be a Spaniard. Yet he said nothing until Googoo finished his report about us. Then, slowly and gravely, he spoke to Senhor Locke.

In the same solemn tone the American answered him. He talked for some time, partly with his tongue and partly with his hands. Once he made a slow movement of both arms as if speaking of something very large and wide. Once he pointed to us and shook his head. Before he finished his face grew ugly, as if he talked of something hateful. Then he moved as if trampling on something and spat on the ground. When he was through he folded his arms like the chief and stood looking steadily into his eyes.

THE chief seemed thoughtful and a little doubtful. He said nothing. I thought he was decided what to do with us; and though I held my head high and stood as if unafraid, I was a little nervous, for I felt that he was unfriendly. But before he spoke again another thing happened.

Voices came to us—merry young voices somewhere behind the house. We heard quick footfalls too, and calls and laughter, as if girls were playing with one another. Then around a corner dashed several young women. As they saw us they stopped short.

“Nossa Senhora!” gulped Pedro.

“I'll be !” muttered the Tucandeira.

I said nothing. I was too much surprized for words.

The girl in the lead, senhores, was white!

Not only was she white, but she was strikingly beautiful. Her hair was wonderful—a rich, glossy red, and so long and thick that it seemed like a mantle of flame, rippling down almost to her knees. Her deep gray eyes were still full of laughter, and her little red mouth kept its smile as she looked us over. She was breathing fast from her running, her face was flushed, and her whole body glowed pink through the light tan on her smooth skin.

Unlike the Indian girls with her, she wore a little clothing; for she had a skirt of feathers reaching to her knees, and around her breasts was a wide girdle of some bright blue material. Her throat, too, was encircled by a necklace of small, irregular globes of gold.

This, I felt, must be the woman of whom Googoo had spoken. Instead of telling us she was bald and blind he had been trying to show us that her hair was not black like ours and that her eyes were neither black nor brown. The memory of what the American had said came to me and made me grin.

“I do not hear you hissing like a snake, senhor,” I said. “And Pedro has forgotten to make his noise of a jaguar.”

Senhor Locke told me I was a “boob” and asked me to shut up. But Pedro, still looking at her, laughed. She did not like it. Her face and throat flushed still more, her eyes snapped, and she stamped a little foot on the ground. Then she spoke to the chief, and her tone was angry. At once the men around us seemed to become hostile.

Before the chief could answer, though, the Tucandeira bowed gracefully to her and talked again. She looked surprized at the sound of her own language coming from his mouth. Then she glanced at us and laughed.

Lifting her hands, she covered her head as if to show us how she would look with no hair, then put them before her eyes. Our companion had explained our mistake in expecting to find her an old hag, and she thought it very funny.

The barbaros guarding us grinned too, and I saw a slight smile at the corners of the mouth of the chief himself. I felt, though, that they were pleased only because she was, and that if she had remained angry it might have gone hard with us.

“I'd advise you jiggers to go slow on the wit and humor,” Senhor Locke said. “This little lady seems to be the whole works, and she was sore as a boil when she thought you were laughing at her. Be meek and mild, like me.”

Then the chief said something to the girl, and she looked at us again more seriously. Her eyes rested only a moment on me, longer on my good-looking comrade Pedro, longest on the black-bearded man who spoke her tongue.

At length she replied in a rather doubtful tone, as if not able to decide something just then. The tall Indian nodded slightly, gave directions to Googoo, turned his back on us and went inside. After another long look at us the red-haired girl followed him.

Now that she was gone, I glanced around at the others. All were maidens excetp [sic] one older woman who had come up behind them, and all were Indians. Their hair was damp, and I judged that the party had been bathing in some private pool.

As we looked at them they giggled and went away toward the smaller houses. Googoo touched my arm, motioned with his head, and led us to a mud house where, he told us, we were to stay.

Everything we owned, except our weapons, was brought there also and left on the floor. Pedro's rifle, the rifle and revolver of Senhor Locke, and our machetes had been put into the house of the chief. Two men were left as guards at our door, one armed with a big club and the other with a bow. Googoo said something, then went away with the others.

“He says food will be brought,” explained Locke. “Nothing for us to do now but sit around and wait for the chow. Say, stand in the doorway a minute and let me run through this pile of junk. I think they overlooked my pocket-knife.”

We did as he said, filling up the doorway, talking, and pointing across the clearing. The guards looked that way to see what drew our attention. Soon the Tucandeira spoke again.

“All right, I got it. These jiggers didn't understand it because it's closed. It has a four-inch blade that might come in handly [sic]. Here, Lourenço, put your hand behind you.”

I did so, and felt the knife come into my palm.

“Slip it into your pocket. Oh, don't worry about me—I'm heeled. I've got a sweet little automatic inside my shirt, under my left arm, where they never thought to look. Now let's get outside and smoke and look innocent.”

The guards scowled and lifted their weapons as we stepped out. But we showed them that we only wanted to rest our backs against the wall, and they made no trouble. Squatting and smoking, we talked things over.

FIRST the Tucandeira told us what he had said to the chief. He had explained that he was not of Peru, but of a great country far to the north, and that he had come across a wide water to reach this place, Then, knowing that the chief felt unfriendly toward him because of the idea that he was a Spaniard, he had tried to help us by saying we were not countrymen of his but men of Brazil, and that we were not even his companions, but that we had met on the river just before our capture.

“You fellows think you're in my boat,” he went on, “but I've got something to say about who rides with me when I'm heading into the rapids, and don't you forget it. If I'm due to hit the rocks that's no reason why you should drown too. Get me?”

We made no protest. The thing was done now, and it was useless to wrangle over it.

“What were you trampling and spitting on?” I asked.

“Spaniards,” he laughed. “I played that card clear across the boards. I told him my country fought the Spaniards twenty years ago and mopped up the earth with them. That's true.

“But I made it stronger by telling him my people still hated all Spaniards, and that whenever we met one there was a holy riot; that we kicked their pants off and stamped their faces into the mud. That's not true at all, of course. But it's up to me to convince him I'm no Spaniard myself, and the best way to put that over is to let him think I hate 'em as much as he does.

“I don't know whether he fell for it or not. But what interests me more is the mystery of little Red-Bird. How the Sam Hill did she ever get here? She's as white as I am, and if she isn't American or English by blood I'll eat crow. Yet she speaks only Quichua, apparently, and she seems as thoroughly a native as the copper-colored girls. What do you fellows make of it?”

We made nothing of it, although we argued until women came with food for us. The food was good and there was plenty of it—a big clay of thick meat stew, broiled fish wrapped in large leaves, bananas, and nuts. We ate so much that we were sluggish afterward, but we were not too sleepy to talk. We asked the American what had been said between the chief the girl when she looked at us so thoughtfully.

“I didn't quite get that,” he admitted. “The old boy seemed to be asking her whether one of us would do, and she didn't know. We've been roped and dragged here for some purpose, but I can't dope out what it is. There's Googoo now, I say, old squirt, come here a minute.”

The big-eyed Indian, seeing him beckon, came to us. The two talked for some time. Googoo smiled a little, but his answers did not seem to be very satisfactory. After a while a man came out of the chief's house and called to him, and he went at once to the doorway and disappeared inside.

“He says the girl is the Golden One,” the Tucandeira told us. “She came to the chief years ago when she was very small. The chief was then a young man and had just become chief through the death of his father. It was the time when turtles lay their eggs, and all this tribe had gone to a big sandy praia, on a river west of here, to get these eggs.

“The chief went away alone to bathe, and while he was doing this a great turtle covered with gold arose in the water before him with the Golden One sitting in its back. It came straight to him, and the little girl jumped off and up into the chief's arms. Then the golden turtle sank and was not seen again. So the chief brought the Golden One home with him, and she has grown up as his daughter and bosses everybody, including the chief himself.

“That's Googoo's yarn. Of course that golden turtle stuff is all bunk invented by the chief, but Googoo believes it, and no doubt everybody else does. But I think the rest of it is partly true—the chief found the little girl at that time and place, and she sure does seem to be the big noise around here. And she is to decide what happens to us.

“Googoo sidestepped when I tried to pump him on that point. All he would do was to grin and say that what is to be will be. Here he comes again.”

Googoo approached and spoke. The Tucandeira rose.

“Come on, you chaps. We're invited to attend another powwow.”

WE WALKED into the house of the chief, finding him sitting in a hammock. The Golden One was beside him, gazing steadily at us and unsmiling. When we stood in a row before him the chief spoke to me.

I showed him I did not understand. Then he addressed Pedro, with the same result. He sat then for a moment watching Senhor Locke. The American turned to us.

“He wants to know just where you come from. I know you work for Coronel Nunes, but where are your homes?”

We told him, and he repeated this in Quichua. Then he kept on talking, and as I could not tell what he was saying I glanced around the place. It had a palm partition with a doorway leading into another room, and against that palm wall I saw something that worried me.

Behind the chief, leaning in a row near one corner, were our guns—and several others. All except ours were very rusty. Counting these, I found that there were six: four repeating rifles of the kind commonly used in our jungle, and two “trade” guns of large bore. On the floor beside them lay our machetes and the American's revolver.

Six men with guns had been here before us. The guns still were here. What had become of the men?

While I was thinking of this Senhor Locke stopped speaking. The chief gazed at each of us again. Then he moved his head toward me and spoke to the Golden One.

For a moment she and I looked into each other's eyes. I thought of what a wonderfully beautiful girl she was, and perhaps my face showed this; for she laughed very prettily and made a little teasing mouth at me. But then she shook her head, and I could see that she was saying, “No.” The chief made a sign with one hand, and Googoo stepped out of the house.

Pedro's turn was next. She smiled at him too, but again said, “No.” Then she and Senhor Locke stood looking at each other for a much longer time. And I was much surprized to see that the Golden One became confused.

A slow blush came into her cheeks, and her gaze dropped. She breathed quickly, her breast quivering as it rose and fell. She half-turned as if to go away, then faced us again and raised her eyes to his as timidly as any shy young Indian maid. When she spoke she hesitated, and hers voice was so low we could hardly hear it.

The chief looked astonished and annoyed. He grunted a few words and moved a thumb toward Pedro. At once she recovered herself. Her eyes snapped, and she told the chief something in a decided tone.

The Indian's eyes went back and forth between Pedro and Senhor Locke. Though I did not know just what this was all about, I could see that a choice was to be made between my two companions; that the chief favored Pedro, while the Golden One wanted the American; and that I was out of it.

The light sound of bare feet at the door made us turn and look. Googoo had come back, and six other men with him. All were armed, all looked grim, and all watched the chief as if expecting orders. I slipped a hand into the pocket where that big clasp-knife lay.

“Looks like a squall,” said the Tucandeira softly. “If they start anything I'll plug the chief. You chaps hurdle his hammock and grab your guns.”

Glancing at him, I saw that his shirt was unbuttoned and the tips of his right fingers were inside it.

The chief sat still and argued with the girl. She stamped a foot and answered sharply. He sighed. An instant later my arms were clutched from behind. Too late I saw that the chief, without raising his hands from his knees, had lifted two fingers to show that Pedro and I were to be seized.

I kicked backward, wrenched myself out of the hands holding me and jumped for the corner where the guns stood. But I collided with the chief, who had risen and now swept his wiry arms around me. I trampled on his bare feet, tried to throw him and get past; but I might as well have tried to push away the crushing loop of a boa.

Hands clamped my wrists again from behind, and though I plunged and strained I could neither break free nor draw the knife. Then some man at my back got an arm around my throat and choked me until I fell.

When my head cleared again I was lying back against the wall, and two wild men were squatting on my hands with all their weight. Pedro, exhausted, was sprawling on the floor with three badly mauled barbaros holding him down. The sixth Indian stood between us with a club raised as if only waiting for a word to crush our skulls. Googoo stood between Senhor Locke and the chief, protecting the tribal ruler with his own body, and the Golden One had twined herself around the American and was trying to hold down his gun hand, in which he gripped a flat pistol.

Later I learned that only my jump toward the chief saved his life. I had leaped between him and the American, who had drawn his pistol and barely escaped shooting me in the back. Instantly the girl had thrown herself on him to protect the man who was a father to her, and after that there was such a whirling tangle of struggling men that he could not fire without danger of hitting me or Pedro.

NOT one of the barbaros had attacked him. Now he snapped out a question and a command. The girl answered in a pleading way. He jerked his head toward us and repeated his order, adding something else in a milder tone. She took her arms from him and stepped back, watching him. He slipped his pistol into a pocket and stood with hands empty. Then she turned and gave an order to the wild men holding us. They looked at her as if they thought her crazed, then turned their eyes to the chief, who seemed as calm as ever. He and the Golden One talked, the chief quietly and the girl excitedly, and he nodded to the men. Slowly they arose and left us free.

“Take it easy, fellows,” Senhor Locke advised us. “I think we'll come through without any more rough stuff. I'm getting the hang of this thing now.”

We arose, set our backs to the wall, and breathed. Our American comrade began talking to the chief, pointing at us and shaking his head. After a time the chief spoke curtly to Googoo and his men. Looking surprized, they went outdoors.

The chief quietly sat down and listened to further things said by Senhor Locke. A long talk between them followed. The Golden One became shy again, standing with her gaze on the floor, glancing up quickly now and then and blushing as she met the eye of the black-bearded man,

Suddenly, at something the chief said, she paled, stared at the Tucandeira, opened her lips, then changed her mind and said nothing. Soon after that Senhor Locke nodded and turned to us.

“Come on, let's go,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Back to our shack. Everything's fixed up until tomorrow. Googoo and his gang will ride herd on us, but outside of that we're as free as if we were in jail.”

Before we left, though, he put out his right hand to the Golden One. She took it, and they stood silent, looking deep into each other's eyes. They made the most striking pair I have ever seen, senhores—the man, white of skin and black of hair, square-jawed and strong and clean-limbed, and the princess of the tribe with her flaming hair and wide eyes, her dainty figure, and her clear skin glowing pink above and below her brilliant feather-dress and girdle. He smiled and spoke softly to her, and as he released her hand she looked both happy and afraid.

At the door of our own house the two guards were waiting for us. They had been among those whom we fought in the house of the chief, and they showed marks of the struggle; but their faces now were like wood, and they gave no sign of either friendliness or enmity as we passed between them.

“Well, gents, a merry time has been had by all, and now I reckon you want to know what it's all about,” said the Tucandeira. “So I'll give you an earful. Boiled down, this is the situation:

“Our little friend the Golden One has reached the age when, according to the ideas of these people, she should take a man. In fact, she's well past that age, for I understand that the Amazon Indians mate at fourteen or even younger, while she must be at least seventeen. Up in my country that would be considered pretty young, but of course a girl matures quicker down here. Anyhow, the chief has felt—and perhaps she herself has—that it's about time she made some chap happy or miserable, according to the luck of the game.

“But the trouble was to find the man. She has flatly refused to hook up with any of the young sprigs in this social set. Can't blame her for that, either. She realizes she's white and far superior to any of them, even though she's known only their kind of life since she was a kiddie, and she refuses to become the squaw of any copper-skin.

“The chief is a wise old skate, and he understands. So he's ordered his men to rope in every white or near-white man they run across, bring him here with as little damage as possible, and let the little lady give him the once-over.

“Up till now they've drawn blanks. Several men have come and gone—and I've got a fat hunch that they didn't go far after they left here. They left their guns behind, as you probably noticed. Besides, you fellows say you never heard of these people, and if any of the chaps who were here got out again they sure would have talked, and the yarn would have gone around for hundreds of miles. They didn't suit the Golden One, and so they were just taken out and disposed of, or else my guess is wrong.

“I don't suppose it ever entered her pretty head that she was sending those fellows to death, but that's about what it came to. We'd be on our way to the same port right now, only she seems to be—er—slightly interested.”

“She is more than interested, senhor,” said Pedro. “You are the man she has been waiting for. I am not a woman's man myself, but I have met a few and I can read the signs. And I thank you, senhor, for saving us. I can see now that the one you call Googoo, and his men, were about to drag us away and crush our heads.

“Well, since you mention it, that's about the size of it. But forget that gratitude stuff—we're all in the same boat after all. The next move in the game is this: I'm elected to do a little stunt tomorrow just to prove that I'm worthy to be the Golden One's man. The chief can't get that Spaniard idea out of his head, and if the choice were left with him he'd pick you, Pedro, for the girl's partner. But she can't see it that way, so he figures to make me prove I'm a man before the wedding bells ring out. I don't know just what the stunt is, but he calls it the test of the tucandeira.”

WE GLANCED swiftly at each other and back at him. My skin began to prickle and crawl.

“Judging from your squirmy expressions, I reckon the test is rather unpleasant, what? I noticed the Golden One looked sort of upset about it too. I know bally well what a tucandeira is, of course. Do I have to let one of them bite me?”

“Not only one of them, senhor, but many,” I told him. “I have never seen this test, but I have heard of it, for it is used by some of the Indian tribes of our river country. When a young man would take a wife he must put his arms into a cylinder in which many of those ants have been kept without food until they are even more savage than usual. If he can endure the torment he is considered fit to live with a woman.”

“Ouch!” he muttered.

Slowly he made a cigaret, and slowly he smoked it.

“But that seems impossible,” he objected when the cigaret was dead. “I have been bitten once by one tucandeira, and it put me in agony. I have heard that four tucandeiras can kill a man. How can any man be bitten many times and live?”

I could not answer this, nor could Pedro. We all squatted there for some time without  speaking. Finally the American said:

“It may be possible after all. Perhaps the ants used are not all tucandeiras—they may be mostly other ants with a few of those bad fellows mixed in. Otherwise there are only two ways I can figure it.

“In the first place, the bite of friend tucandeira hurts like the devil. Death can be caused by too much pain, even without poison. The tucandeira gives you pain and poison too.

“Now this matter of pain depends altogether on your nerves. An Indian's nerves are nowhere near as sensitive as those of highly civilized folks, and maybe that gives him greater endurance, simply because he doesn't feel the same amount of pain a white man would.

“And as for the poison—well, these Indians have been living among these ants for hundreds of years. At one time or another they or their ancestors have been bitten a good many times, and no doubt they've acquired some immunity to the poison. The upshot of all this is that your jungle Indian can live through this tucandeira test when it would knock a white man dead. I bet that's the answer. Sounds reasonable, what?”

“You may have it right,” I agreed. “But that only makes it worse for you. You are a white man, and your fathers have not been bitten by these horrible things. And to speak plainly, senhor, I do not believe you will be given any false tucandeiras in your test. They will all be real ones.”

“Which means that they will kill me,” he nodded, “unless I can dope out some way to beat the game. Cheerful old joker, that chief? Do you jiggers know any antidote to that ant-juice?”

We thought, and after a time an idea came to me.

“I know of nothing except this,” I said. “Most of the wild men of our jungle use the blow-gun and poisoned darts in hunting. The poison they use will quickly paralyze and kill anything after it enters the blood, but still it does not make the animal or bird unfit for food. Different tribes make this poison in different ways, but I know that at least one tribe makes it from certain roots and tucandeiras.

“Now it sometimes happens that a wild man wants to strike down an animal but not to kill it—he wants to keep it alive. He weakens his poison with water, so that the animal falls and lies still but does not die. When he has secured it he puts a little salt in its mouth, and this makes the beast lively again. It may be, senhor, that salt would weaken the effect of the tucandeira bites.”

He slapped his thigh.

“Good dope!” he said. “It's worth trying anyhow. Yep, I'll give it a whirl just to see if it works.”

Pedro and I, however, had the same idea, and we told it to him—that the best thing to do was to try to escape in the night. There were only two guards, and he still had his pistol, while I had his knife. But he shook his head.

“There are several little things against that plan,” he said. “Unless they're bigger fools than I think, they'll put more guards here at night. We couldn't kill them all without a racket, and then the whole outfit would be on us. Besides that, I promised the Golden One I wouldn't use my gun if she'd protect you fellows. She and the chief took my word for it, and I have a bad habit of keeping my promises.

“And that isn't all I'm going to take that test and win the little lady if I can. She's decidedly worth it.”

There was nothing more for us to say, so we said nothing.

“You see, there are two sides to this thing—my side and hers,” he went on after a pause. “As you say, Pedro, she seems to have found her man. Like you, I've known a few women and can read the signs. She's in a tough position here, marooned among these copperheads, and now that she's met the one man she wants I'd be all kinds of a bally skunk to duck and leave her in the hole. Life would never be the same to her again.

“For that matter, the chief might get sore at her for her part in saving us, and if he did he'd make it for her. Nope, I can't cut and run, fellows. It just isn't done, that's all.

“And as for my side of it—well, this isn't the first time folks have tried to rope me into marriage, but it's the first time I ever wanted to be roped. Up in my own country I've had considerable money at times, and I shouldn't wonder if there might be a few dollars of mine left in one or two banks right now; and besides that, my folks are rather prominent in a way. That means that I've had to step lively a few times to stay unmarried.

“I've nothing against women, but until now I haven't met up with any that I wanted to travel with. Mostly they're insincere, artificial, and worshipers of money and social position. But the Golden One is a real honest-to-God girl, uncontaminated by mercenary ideas, and a whizzer of a beauty besides.

“Run away and leave her? You couldn't drive me out of here with a machine gun until she's ready to go out with me.

“Tell you what I'll do, though. If you jiggers are set on making a break tonight I'll help you all I can, short of shooting up the place. No? All right. Then I'll start dolling myself up for this ant-fest.”

HE BEGAN rummaging among his goods, whistling away as if the coming ordeal were something pleasant. Out from a big rubber-covered bag he took smaller bags full of salt. Leaving these hidden behind other things, he went to the door and argued with the guards until one of them yelled to some one. Soon women came with four big jars of water.

“Strip and take a bath,” he told us. “I convinced these chaps that we needed water for bathing and drinking, so we'll have to make good.”

Each taking a jar, we bathed, while the guards watched us from the doorway. After a while they turned away and went back to their places. Then Senhor Locke slopped most of the water from his jar, and into it he swiftly emptied the bags of salt.

“That ought to make brine that would pickle a horse,” he said, beginning to dress.

“It will make you sick if you drink much of it,” said Pedro.

“Drink it? Lord, I'm not going to drink it, but pickle my arms in it. If the salt is an antidote to the ant-juice, the chances are that they don't like it and won't chew me up so bad. Savvy?”

I was doubtful about that value of this, but I said nothing. It was worth trying, and I knew of nothing else. When he was clothed again he stirred the salty water with his hands and then rubbed it into his arms up to the shoulders.

After that we lay in our hammocks and talked. The time dragged. At length the Tucandeira arose and dug out from another bundle a bunch of cards. As he did so, a small rubber bag rolled out on the dirt floor. He picked this up, and suddenly he laughed as if a bright idea had struck him. Glancing out at the barbaros, he slipped the bag inside his shirt. Then he brought the cards over and began showing them to us.

They were colored pictures of many things—tall buildings, men and horses, steamboats, mountains, and so on. They had been printed from photographs taken in his country, he said, and he had brought them from America to give to Indians who might do little jobs for him. We were so much interested in them that we did not know any one else was there until a soft voice spoke at the door.

The Golden One stood there smiling at us. She had come to look again at her man. Pedro and I arose and offered her our hammocks. Then we went outside and squatted against the wall.

The guards were uneasy. They grunted to each other, moved several times, and finally stood where they could look inside and watch us too.

We heard the man and the girl behind us talking and laughing for a time, and then they seemed to speak more seriously. After that we paid no more attention to their voices, for we began to pass the time by talking about the barbaros whom we could see passing about the village. None of them gave much attention to us, except a few girls who gathered at a distance and giggled.

At last we noticed that the pair in the hut behind us were not talking. Then came a little noise that sounded much like a kiss.

We winked at each other, and the grins were still on our faces when the Golden One came out laughing and blushing and looking very lovely. She saw our smiles, blushed still more, and ran swiftly away to the house of the chief.

“Well, amigos, I win,” said the Tucandeira, coming out.

“We knew that, senhor,” laughed Pedro.

“Oh slush; I don't mean what you think I mean. I bet you jiggers that the Golden One was American or English, and I win that bet. She's American!

“See these post-cards? I showed them to her too, and she recognized some things right away and called them by their right names.

“See this one of the cow-puncher and his horse? She knew the horse right off the bat—called it 'horsie,' as a little kid would do. She's never seen a horse since she came here, because there aren't any in this jungly river country; so she must remember those she saw before she left the States. And she's never seen a steamer here, of course; yet she recognized that too, and called it a '’teamboat.'

“Besides that, she knows part of her name—says she is 'Baby Mary.' And she remembers a man she calls 'daddy' lying dead in a canoe with a stick in him—an arrow, of course—and awful black birds following overhead for a long distance, and then the canoe grounding on sand where she got out and a tall Indian finally found her. Poor little kid, she must have had a devil of a time! Good thing a jaguar didn't find her before the chief did.”

“Did she tell you anything about the test?” I asked,

“Yes, some. It's just what you fellows predicted. One thing in my favor is that they haven't any starved ants on hand, so they've got to use some that have eaten recently. Men are out catching them now. Not that it will make much difference, but every little bit helps. Ho-hum. 'Most time for the chuck-wagon to roll around again.”

It was nearly time to eat, as he said. Soon women brought us food, and he showed that nothing ailed his appetite. When we finished we found that his guess had been correct—the guards were to be increased at night. Six of them, heavily armed and led by Googoo himself, relieved the two who had watched us through the afternoon.

Darkness came; a cloudy night with a watery moon. We got into our hammocks and slept.

Twice in the night I awoke to hear a soft slopping sound and found the Tucandeira soaking his arms again. I said nothing, knowing that the sound of my voice would bring the barbaros in at once.

How many times he got up I do not know, for I heard him only twice. When day came, though, I noticed that he seemed sleepy and his arms were caked white with dried salt.

AFTER our morning meal he yawned several times, and a smoke only seemed to make him sleepier than before.

Snapping away the cigaret, he growled disgustedly, stretched himself, and muttered:

“Might as well start it now. Stand in the doorway a second, gents.”

We blocked up the entrance, lounging there lazily a minute until he said, “All right.” When we looked back he was chewing on something, and as he came out I saw that one cheek was swollen.

Thinking he had taken a mouthful of tobacco, I did not puzzle over it, except to wonder in a lazy way why he had hidden from the guards. I noticed, though, that his sleepiness was leaving him and his eyes were growing brighter.

Squatting against the wall, we waited for something to happen. We waited for some time. The barbaros went about the village as usual; but all looked often at us, and we knew they too were waiting for the test to begin. Once the Golden One came to the door of the chief's house and waved a hand, but she did not come near us. Pedro and I dozed a little and the Tucandeira sat silent, chewing all the time.

After a while two men approached the house of the chief, squatted, and began to beat drums. At that the village woke up. Men came from all the huts, followed by the women and children.

“There goes the overture,” said Senhor Locke, rising. “Curtain goes up in three minutes. Being the star performer, I'll slide into my dressing-room and prink a bit. Let me know when the bally audience is ready.”

The bally audience was ready quite soon. The chief, the Golden One, and an old man carefully holding something round stood at the chief's door. The two drummers squatted in a clear space before them, and beyond this open space all the other Indians stood close together, all looking toward us.

Then the chief raised a hand toward Googoo, who was still on duty with all five of his men. Googoo started toward us. aj

“They come, senhor,” I called.

He came out, nodded easily at Googoo, and strode away toward the chief. We walked behind him, and the guards behind us. I noticed that his arms no longer glistened with salt, and wondered if he had washed it off.

Later on, I learned that he had soaked them again, then partly dried them with cloth, so that the salt was all there but was damp and did not show. Also, he still carried that big chew in his mouth.

Straight up to the Golden One he went, spoke to her as if telling her not to worry, and smiled. She smiled in answer, but the smile quickly died and she looked very sober. The chief said something and moved his head toward the old man, who seemed to be the pajé, or medicine-man, of the tribe.

The American put out his hands. The old man pulled open a sort of cloth at the end of a woven fiber tube, slipped the tube quickly up the white man's arms, pulled the cloth tight and tied it firmly. This cloth made a sort of sleeve, preventing the ants from running beyond the place where it was tied. When this was fastened the pajé stepped back. At once the drummers stopped beating.

With the end of the drumming it seemed very quiet. We could hear the breathing of the barbaros around us, but nothing else. Nobody spoke or moved. Every eye was on the face of Senhor Locke, every ear waiting to hear him whimper with pain.

He stood silent, moving no muscle except those of his jaws, which chewed away steadily. As the minutes dragged by he still made no sound, but his face changed a little. His eyes became set.

His lips twitched slightly.

Then his jaws stopped and their muscles stood out before his ears. Under his tan his skin grew gray. I knew the salt was not keeping off all the ants. Somehow I felt sick.

But he did not flinch. He neither groaned nor writhed. Rigid as a rifle he stood. The only sound he made was his hoarse breathing, which was deep and slow, with a sort of quiver in it.

A low murmur went around the circle of watching Indians. They were whispering and speaking among themselves. Yet nobody moved, nobody talked aloud.

More time dragged past—how long I do not know. I feared to see him stagger and fall, overcome by poison and pain. But he did not waver, and it was another who was first to move.

That other was the pajé. At last he came forward, peering into the eyes of Senhor Locke, which stared straight past him. Then he loosened the cords which held the sleeve, drew the cloth down carefully to keep the tucandeiras inside the cylinder, flipped the tube suddenly away and swiftly closed it.

SLOWLY the senhor turned toward our hut. The Golden One sprang to his side, laughing and joyous. But he made no answer to her eager talk, nor even looked at her. He stalked to the house, went inside, and dropped on his knees beside a water-jar.

We trailed close behind him, and after us came the crowd, talking loudly now and anxious to watch him longer. But we turned in the doorway and blocked it, ordering them all away. We would not let even the Golden One come in. We knew our comrade was going to be sick.

And sick he was, senhores. We heard him splashing water and retching. Yet even now he did not groan. I told Pedro to go to him while I held the door, which I could easily do because the opening was narrow and I am broad; and besides I was now in an ugly temper, for I knew from experience how the tucandeira bite hurts, and I would gladly have kicked some of those Indians in the stomach if they had crowded me.

But they kept back. The American had endured the test and would be the Golden One's man, and we were his companions, and not even the armed guards thought it best to go too far. I had some trouble, though, with the Golden One herself.

She was furious because I would not let her pass. She tried to push me aside, and when she could not do that she cried out at me in anger, stamping her foot and looking at me with eyes blazing. I tried to tell her she could see the senhor when he was ready, but since she did not understand my language this meant little to her. I half-expected her to order Googoo and his men to throw me out of the way, but she was too sensible to do that—probably knowing that a serious fight would follow.

Finding me stubborn, she grew quiet and listened to the sounds from inside. Then she spoke sharply to the others, and they went away, looking back often. After that she called to the pajé, who now was talking to the chief. He, too, went somewhere, returning soon with two small clay jars, one of which held liquid and the other a sort of paste. Knowing this must be medicine, I let him pass. Before I could stop her the Golden One slipped in after him.

Senhor Locke now was in his hammock, looking weak but able to smile a little at the girl. The old man gave him a drink from one jar, then smeared his arms with the paste.

Soon the white man appeared to feel better. The grayish look left his face, and some of the hard lines around his mouth smoothed out. He spoke to the Golden One. She swiftly bent and kissed him.

“I think, Lourenço, ” said Pedro, “that we are not needed here. Senhor Locke, we are going to walk.”

“Go as far as you like,” he answered. We did.

We walked all about the village. The guards made no attempt to stop us—indeed, Googoo alone came with us, acting more friendly now. Every one else seemed friendly too, and some of the barbaros gave us jabutí-pûhe and cumâ and other fruits to eat. Though we could not talk to them, we managed to exchange ideas by making signs and wrinkling our faces, and the time passed pleasantly until we decided to return to our own hut.

There we found the Tucandeira sitting up in his hammock and talking with the Golden One, who was in the same hammock and very close to him. Except that his arms looked swollen he showed hardly any effects of the ant-bites. I was astonished, even though I had had some experience myself with Indian remedies.

“Has the pain left you, senhor?” I asked.

“Mostly. The flesh is tender and my bones ache some—sort of a rheumatic feeling—but it isn't half-bad now,” he said cheerfully. “That old medicine-man is a ring-tailed whizzer, I'll say. I think the salt helped a good deal too—kept off some of the bugs. But the dose I got was plenty, thanks. If it hadn't been for the coca I might have squirmed some.”

“The what?”

“Coca. Coca and a little lime. You saw me hide it in my shirt and chew it. I learned that little trick from Indians over in the Andes. It gives 'em tremendous endurance; I've seen them go forty-eight hours without sleep by chewing it.

“Me, I don't like the stuff, but I brought some away with me for emergencies. It's no painkiller, but it sure helps a chap to hold out.” Then he laughed and glanced at the Golden One.

“This little lady and I both put one over on each other,” he said. “I've owned up to her about the salt and the coca, and she's admitted that she could have saved me all the pain. She says there is a bitter vegetable oil that all ants hate, and she thought of smuggling me some to smear on myself so that they wouldn't bite. Then she changed her mind because she wanted to find out whether I was a sure enough he-man. She never realized that the ants might kill me.

“But now everybody's satisfied, and the next thing is a huge wedding. You jiggers can get howling drunk and stay that way for the next three days. Everybody else will.”

“That will be very sad,” grinned Pedro. “But what will you do after that, senhor? I do not believe the chief will let her go out with you.”

“Won't he?”

The other's eyes narrowed.

“He'd better! If he cuts up rough all bets are off, and he'll find some lead pills in his gizzard. I reckon I've got something to say about where my own wife lives. What's more, she's keen. to go out, and now that I've won her I'm betting the chief will come through like a man.”

HE SEEMED to be right. At least, the chief made no objection to the marriage celebration. For the next three days, as the senhor had said, there was much feasting and drinking, dancing and games. We did not become “howling drunk,” for we knew better than to take too much of the strong liquor brought out by the barbaros—it is easy to start a deadly fight between different races when all are drinking. Yet none of the Indians became quarrelsome from their liquor. It made them like happy children.

Some put on huge masks of cloth made from the inner bark of trees, painted red and yellow and black and shaped like heads of beasts or birds. The chief himself donned a great head-dress of bright parrot and toucan feathers, painted his face and chest, and changed the two blue feathers in his nose for flaming red ones. These slipped out of place after he had taken a number of drinks and made him look very funny, one pointing at his left eye and the other drooping toward his mouth.

Googoo became very drunk indeed, so that his big eyes bulged like those of a tipsy owl, and he reeled around with Pedro and me all the time, hiccoughing and blabbing many things which we did not understand at all. The men masked as animals pranced around on all fours and tripped other men so that they flopped on their faces.

The joke which every one enjoyed most, however, was Pedro's idea. Through Senhor Locke, who did not know why he wanted it, he obtained the fiber rope which had been looped around the American's body while we were prisoners. Then, catching the senhor and the Golden One standing side by side, he threw the noose over both of them, yanked it tight, and gave the end of the rope to Googoo.

At once the rest of the gang which had brought us there came staggering forward and grabbed the rope also. Then, yelping like a flock of crazy toucans and falling over one another's feet, they drove the pair around the village while every one screeched with laughter.

The Golden One and her black-bearded mate enjoyed this as much as we. When the loop was loosened Senhor Locke laughed:

“I'm going to keep this rope. It's a queer wedding ring, but it's the only one we'll have until we get out to where I can buy one of gold. and have our knot tied according to white man's law.”

And he did keep it. When we all went out together he wore it coiled over one shoulder and across his chest.

Yes, senhores, we all went out. After the festa ended and every one at last was sober, the Tucandeira and the Golden One talked long with the chief. Finding that she was eager to go out into the great world with her man, the ruler of the tribe slowly nodded and gave orders to Googoo. And the next day at dawn we left the town.

The chief himself led the long file of men who went with us. Every man in the village, except the pajé and a few others who were old or not strong, swung away through the bush to the place where they were to say farewell to their Golden One. Some carried the few things Pedro and I had had when caught; others bore the larger packages belonging to Senhor Locke; and still others conveyed much food for us to eat after we should leave them. It seemed that every one in the band carried something except the chief, the girl, and we three men. We traveled at a steady jog through the cool jungle shade, and it was not late in the day when we reached the spot where our canoe had been ao

There our weapons were given back to us and the boats were loaded again. When all was ready Pedro and I pushed out and hung to an overhanging limb.

The Golden One took a place in the middle of her man's big canoe. He stepped aboard, lifted his paddle, and nodded to the men holding it to the bank. But the chief spoke, and they kept their grip on the boat.

Then the chief took from a man beside him a bundle, which he gave to the girl. He spoke again, slowly and gravely, pointing once to the thing he had given her. Then the men holding the boat shoved it away. We sunk our paddles in the water and moved out into the river.

Silent, motionless, with arms folded and head high, the chief watched us go. The men around him all stood still as the trees. Only when the Golden One called to them and waved a hand in farewell did they move. Then their hands rose together, a shrill yell broke from them, and the swift current swept us around a bend and we saw them no more.

It was not until we reached the headquarters of our old coronel, several days later, that we learned what was in that package given by the chief in parting. The coronel gave us all a warm welcome, made Senhor Locke and his bride at home in his house, and hastily presented the Golden One with some civilized clothing left there by his daughter Flora, who was at school far away in Rio. Then, as we all sat talking by the lamp-light, Senhor Locke opened the bundle and looked over several things it contained.

“The chief said,” he told us, “that he found these things at the time when the Golden One came to him on the back of the golden turtle. That means, of course, that he found her daddy's body—or what was left of it—and took this stuff from it. Seems to be mostly junk. Guess this black note-book will give us the best tip.”

He ran through it while we talked of other things. Suddenly he whistled.

“Ye gods and little horned-toads! Mary girl, your father was 'Red Jim' McMurray!

“He was a big mining man—I've heard of him. When he was away past forty he married a young doll who had roped him in for his money. She made life miserable for him. Finally he disappeared, taking his little daughter and leaving a note saying he was going to a place where he'd never see another white woman as long as he lived. And he sure did!

“He fixed his will, too, as I remember it, so that if he should be declared legally dead his wife wouldn't get his money, and she fought like a wildcat to bust that will. Before the case could be settled she got killed in an automobile smash. And you're little Mary McMurray— Oh rats! You don't understand a word I'm saying!”

But she did know a few words, senhores. She smiled brightly and said:.

“Baby Mary! Mary wants horsie.”

“I reckon you can have several horsies,” laughed the Tucandeira. “And you're going to live out in the big country where the horsies grow, too. You'd perish in a city, surrounded by a lot of jealous, supercilious cats.”

“Then you are not going to poke into the other rivers along the Amazon and seek trouble there, senhor?” asked Pedro.

“Nope. Not now. I fancy I've found trouble enough to keep me busy for a while. I've got to teach my Mary girl how to talk and eat with a fork and wear clothes and ride horsies and—and everything. Yep, your old pal the Tucandeira has bitten off a man-sized mouthful, I'll say. Coronel, how soon can we catch the bally boat for the States?”

title: The Tucandeira


text:
Page:West African Studies.djvu/306

 offered too little, they divide the merchandise into two parts, leaving near the gold as much as they are inclined to give for it, and then again depart. At their next return the bargain is finished, for they either find more gold added or the whole taken away, and the goods left on their hands.

A further confirmation of the existence of this method of trading we find in that most interesting voyage of Claude Jannequin, Sieur de Rochfort, 1639. He says, "In this cursed country"—he always speaks of West Africa like that—"there is no provision but fish dried in the sun, and maize and tobacco." The natives will only trade by the French laying down on the ground what they would give for the provisions, and then going away, on which the natives came and took the commodities and left the fish in exchange. The regions he visited were those of Cape Blanco.

To this day you will find a form of this silent trade still going on in Guinea. I have often seen on market roads in many districts, but always well away from Europeanised settlements, a little space cleared by the wayside, and neatly laid with plantain leaves, whereon were very tidily arranged various little articles for sale—a few kola nuts, leaves of tobacco, cakes of salt, a few heads of maize, or a pile of yams or sweet potatoes. Against each class of articles so many cowrie shells or beans are placed, and, always hanging from a branch above, or sedately sitting in the middle of the shop, a little fetish. The number of cowrie shells or beans indicate the price of the individual articles in the various heaps, and the little fetish is there to see that any one who does not place in the stead of the articles removed their proper price, or who meddles with the till,

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Page:West African Studies.djvu/306


text: Poems (Cromwell)/The Deep

title: Poems (Cromwell)/The Deep


text: Page:Fairview Boys at Lighthouse Cove.djvu/6


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Definition

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Definition


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Deliverance

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Deliverance


text: Poems (Cromwell)/The Deserted Shrine

title: Poems (Cromwell)/The Deserted Shrine


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Discipline

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Discipline


text: Page:Fairview Boys at Lighthouse Cove.djvu/7


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Disillusion

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Disillusion


text:
Page:John Banks Wilson - Maneuver and Firepower (1998).djvu/355

 FLEXIBLE RESPONSE

 * Arrived separately.

active Army. At peak strength the Army had 19 divisions (counting the 3 brigades attached to the 23d as 1 division), with 7 divisions serving in Vietnam, 2 in Korea, 5 in Europe, and 5 in the United States, and 11 brigades, of which 4 were in Vietnam, 2 in Alaska, 1 in the Canal Zone, and 4 in the continental United States.

Airmobility gave commanders the ability to concentrate men and their firepower on the Vietnamese battlefield quickly, and the Army planned to organize a second airmobile division as early as 1966. These plans foundered until 1968 because of the aviation needs of other combat units in Vietnam and the general shortage of aviation equipment. But after the 101st Airborne Division arrived in Southeast Asia, U.S. Army, Vietnam, began a phased reorganization of the division into an airmobile configuration, which took over a year to complete.

During the conversion of the 101st, the Army adopted a decentralized approach to aircraft maintenance. Initially the 101st, like the 1st Cavalry Division, was to have a large aircraft maintenance battalion, but the need of company-, battery-, and troop-size aviation units for their own maintenance organiza-


text:
Page:West African Studies.djvu/307

 shall swell up and burst. There is no doubt it is a very easy method of carrying on commerce.

In what the silent trade may have originated it is hard to say; but one thing is certain, that the dread and fear of the negroes did not result from the evil effects of the slave trade, as so many of their terrors are said to have done, for we have seen notice of it long before this slave trade arose. Nevertheless, there can be but little doubt that it arose from a sense of personal insecurity, and has fetish in it, the natives holding it safer to leave so dangerous a thing as trafficking with unknown beings—white things that were most likely spirits, with the smell of death on them—in the hands of their gods. In the cases of it that I have seen no doubt it was done mostly for convenience, one person being thereby enabled to have several shops open at but little working expense; but I have seen it employed as a method of trading between tribes at war with each other. We must dismiss, I fear, bashfulness regarding lips as being a real cause; but I will not dismiss the bleeding lips as a mere traveller's tale, because I have seen quite enough to make me understand what those people who told of bleeding thick lips meant; several, not all of my African friends, are a bit thick about the lower lip, and when they have been passing over waterless sun-dried plateaux or bits of desert they are anything but decorative. The lips get swollen and black, and Ca da Mostro does not go too far in his description of what he was told regarding them.

title: Page:West African Studies.djvu/307


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Dominion

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Dominion


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Dusk

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Dusk


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Early Snow

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Early Snow


text: Page:Fairview Boys at Lighthouse Cove.djvu/8


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/166

 girls; while adults pay very little attention to sex offenders and stress instead the inept, the impudent and the disobedient among the young, and the lazy, the stupid, the quarrelsome and the unreliable as the least desirable characters among the adults. When an adult is speaking the standards of conduct are graded in this fashion: small children should keep quiet, wake up early, obey, work hard and cheerfully, play with children of their own sex; young people should work industriously and skilfully, not be presuming, marry discreetly, be loyal to their relatives, not carry tales, nor be trouble makers; while adults should be wise, peaceable, serene, generous, anxious for the good prestige of their village and conduct their lives with all good form and decorum. No prominence is given to the subtler facts of intelligence and temperament. Preference between the sexes is given not to the arrogant, the flippant, the courageous, but to the quiet, the demure boy or girl who "speaks softly and treads lightly."


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/165

 to Tutuila last week." Although these statements have the earmarks of attempted explanations they are really only conversational habits. The physical defect or recent incident, is not specifically invoked but merely mentioned with slightly greater and more deprecatory emphasis. The whole preoccupation is with the individual as an actor, and the motivations peculiar to his psychology are left an unplumbed mystery.

Judgments are always made in terms of age groups, from the standpoints of the group of the speaker and the age of the person judged. A young boy will not be regarded as an intelligent or stupid, attractive or unattractive, clumsy or skilful person. He is a bright little boy of nine who runs errands efficiently and is wise enough to hold his tongue when his elders are present, or a promising youth of eighteen who can make excellent speeches in the Aumaga, lead a fishing expedition with discretion and treat the chiefs with the respect which is due to them, or a wise matai, whose words are few and well chosen and who is good at weaving eel traps. The virtues of the child are not the virtues of the adult. And the judgment of the speaker is similarly influenced by age, so that the relative estimation of character varies also. Pre-adolescent boys and girls will vote that boy and girl worst who are most pugnacious, irascible, contentious, rowdy. Young people from sixteen to twenty shift their censure from the rowdy and bully to the licentious, the moetotolo among the boys, the notoriously promiscuous among the


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/164

 evaluation of temperament as opposed to character. The well-integrated individual who approximates closely to the attitudes of his age and sex group is not accused of laughing, crying, or showing anger without cause. Without inquiry it is assumed that he has good typical reasons for a behaviour which would be scrutinised and scorned in the case of the temperamental deviant. And always excessive emotion, violent preferences, strong allegiances are disallowed. The Samoan preference is for a middle course, a moderate amount of feeling, a discreet expression of a reasonable and balanced attitude. Those who care greatly are always said to care without cause.

The one most disliked trait in a contemporary is expressed by the term fiasili, literally "desiring to be highest," more idiomatically, "stuck up." This is the comment of the age mate where an older person would use the disapproving tautala laititi, "presuming above one's age." It is essentially the resentful comment of those who are ignored, neglected, left behind upon those who excel them, scorn them, pass them by. As a term of reproach it is neither as dreaded nor as resented as the tautala laititi because envy is felt to play a part in the taunt.

In the casual conversations, the place of idle speculation about motivation is taken by explanations in terms of physical defect or objective misfortune, thus "Sila is crying over in that house. Well, Sila is deaf." "Tulipa is angry at her brother. Tulipa's mother went


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/163

 good child will be said to listen easily or to act well, a bad child to listen with difficulty or act badly. "Easy" and "with difficulty" are judgments of character; "good" and "bad" of behaviour. So that good or bad behaviour have become, explained in terms of ease or difficulty, to be regarded as an inherent capability of the individual. As we would say a person sang easily or swam without effort, the Samoan will say one obeys easily, acts respectfully, "easily," reserving the terms "good" or "well" for objective approbation. So a chief who was commenting on the bad behaviour of his brother's daughter remarked, "But Tui's children always did listen with difficulty," with as casual an acceptance of an irradicable defect as if he had said, "But John always did have poor eye sight."

Such an attitude towards conduct is paralleled by an equally unusual attitude towards the expression of emotion. The expressions of emotions are classified as "caused" and "uncaused." The emotional, easily upset, moody person is described as laughing without cause, crying without cause, showing anger or pugnaciousness without cause. The expression "to be very angry without cause" does not carry the implication of quick temper, which is expressed by the word "to anger easily," nor the connotation of a disproportionate response to a legitimate stimulus, but means literally to be angry without cause, or freely, an emotional state without any apparent stimulus whatsoever. Such judgments are the nearest that the Samoan approaches to


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/162

 to them. I tried over and over again to get judgments as to who was the wisest or the best man of the community. An informant's first impulse was always to answer: "Oh, they are all good"; or, "There are so many wise ones." Curiously enough, there seemed to be less difficulty in distinguishing the vicious than the virtuous. This is probably due to the Missionary influence which if it has failed to give the native a conviction of Sin, has at least provided him with a list of sins. Although I often met with a preliminary response, "There are so many bad boys"; it was usually qualified spontaneously by "But so-and-so is the worst because he " Ugliness and viciousness were more vivid and unusual attributes of personality; beauty, wisdom, and kindness were taken for granted.

In an account given of another person the sequence of traits mentioned followed a set and objective pattern: sex, age, rank, relationship, defects, activities. Spontaneous comment upon character or personality were unusual. So a girl describes her grandmother: "Lauuli? Oh, she is an old woman, very old, she's my father's mother. She's a widow with one eye. She is too old to go inland but sits in the house all day. She makes tapa." This completely unanalytical account is only modified in the case of exceptionally intelligent adults who are asked to make judgments.

In the native classification attitudes are qualified by four terms, good and bad, easy and difficult, paired. A


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/161

 his nominal possessions. The tapa which a woman spent three weeks in making will be given away to a visitor during her temporary absence. The rings may be begged off her fingers at any moment. Privacy of possessions is virtually impossible. In the same way, all of an individual's acts are public property. An occasional love affair may slip through the fingers of gossip, and an occasional moetotolo go uncaught, but there is a very general cognisance on the part of the whole village of the activity of every single inhabitant. I shall never forget the outraged expression with which an informant told me that nobody, actually nobody at all, knew who was the father of Fa'amoana's baby. The oppressive atmosphere of the small town is all about them; in an hour children will have made a dancing song of their most secret acts. This glaring publicity is compensated for by a violent gloomy secretiveness. Where a Westerner would say, "Yes, I love him but you'll never know how far it went," a Samoan would say, "Yes, of course I lived with him, but you'll never know whether I love him or hate him."

The Samoan language has no regular comparative. There are several clumsy ways of expressing comparison by using contrast, "This is good and that is bad"; or by the locution, "And next to him there comes, etc." Comparisons are not habitual although in the rigid social structure of the community, relative rank is very keenly recognised. But relative goodness, relative beauty, relative wisdom are unfamiliar formalisations


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/160

 an individual falls ill, the explanation is sought first in the attitudes of his relatives. Anger in the heart of a relative, especially in that of a sister, is most potent in producing evil and so the whole household is convened, a kava ceremony held and each relative solemnly enjoined to confess what anger there is in his heart against the sick person. Such injunctions are met either by solemn disclaimers or by detailed confessions: "Last week my brother came into the house and ate all the food, and I was angry all day"; or "My brother and I had a quarrel and my father took my brother's side and I was angry at my father for his favouritism towards my brother." But this special ceremony only serves to throw into strong relief the prevalent unspeculative attitude towards motivation. I once saw a girl leave a week-end fishing party immediately upon arrival at our destination and insist upon returning in the heat of the day the six miles to the village. But her companions ventured no hypothesis; she was simply musu to the party.

How great a protection for the individual such an attitude is will readily be seen when it is remembered how little privacy any one has. Chief or child, he dwells habitually in a house with at least half a dozen other people. His possessions are simply rolled in a mat, placed on the rafters or piled carelessly into a basket or a chest. A chief's personal property is likely to be respected, at least by the women of the household, but no one else can be sure from hour to hour of


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/156

ease with which personality differences can be adjusted by a change of residence prevents the Samoans from pressing one another too hard. Their evaluations of personality are a curious mixture of caution and fatalism. There is one word musu which expresses unwillingness and intractability, whether in the mistress who refuses to welcome a hitherto welcome lover, the chief who refuses to lend his kava bowl, the baby who won't go to bed, or the talking chief who won't go on a malaga. The appearance of a musu attitude is treated with almost superstitious respect. Lovers will prescribe formulæ for the treatment of a mistress, "lest she become musu," and the behaviour of the suppliant is carefully orientated in respect to this mysterious undesirability. The feeling seems to be not that one is dealing with an individual in terms of his peculiar preoccupations in order to assure a successful outcome of a personal relationship, appealing now to vanity, now to fear, now to a desire for power, but rather that one is using one or another of a series of potent practices to prevent a mysterious and widespread psychological phenomenon from arising. Once this attitude has appeared, a Samoan habitually gives up the struggle without more


text:
Page:Margaret Mead - Coming of age in Samoa; a psychological study of primitive youth for western civilisation.pdf/159

 detailed inquiry and with a minimum of complaint. This fatalistic acceptance of an inexplicable attitude makes for an odd incuriousness about motives. The Samoans are not in the least insensitive to differences between people. But their full appreciation of these differences is blurred by their conception of an obstinate disposition, a tendency to take umbrage, irascibility, contra-suggestibility, and particular biases as just so many roads to one attitude—musu.

This lack of curiosity about motivation is furthered. by the conventional acceptance of a completely ambiguous answer to any personal question. The most characteristic reply to any question about one's motivation is Ta ilo, "search me," sometimes made more specific by the addition of "I don't know." This is considered to be an adequate and acceptable answer in ordinary conversation although its slight curtness bars it out from ceremonious occasions. So deep seated is the habit of using this disclaimer that I had to put a taboo upon its use by the children in order to get the simplest question answered directly. When this ambiguous rejoinder is combined with a statement that one is musu, the result is the final unrevealing statement, "Search me, why, I don't want to, that's all." Plans will be abandoned, children refuse to live at home, marriages broken off. Village gossip is interested in the fact but shrugs its shoulders before the motives.

There is one curious exception to this attitude. If


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Education

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Education


text: Poems (Cromwell)/Egypt

title: Poems (Cromwell)/Egypt