It fell in two pieces on each side of his blade, severed by its
razor-like edge.

"Sikaso is a good fellow to be friends with when he can make little
ones out of big ones like that," remarked Billy, picking up the two
fragments of his handkerchief, "that's a fine way to cut up a
gentleman's wardrobe."

Bit by bit as the launch drove steadily up the muddy river--from
whose jungle-grown banks arose a warm, moist vapor--Frank drew from
the grim-faced old Krooman some of his history. He had been a
mighty warrior in the old days, he said, and the weapon be carried
was his war axe with which he had killed uncounted enemies. A rival
tribe, however, had killed his father and mother and driven him to
the coast with the few survivors of his village. Here he had
shipped on an American trading brig for New York where he had picked
up the knowledge of English he possessed. He also worshiped America
as "free man's country." But Africa had called to him and some
three years before he had returned on another ship and meant to die
there, he said.

"Why did you wish to go with us?" asked Frank as the native
concluded his story.

"It was written so in the smoke, white boss," replied the veteran
simply. "The ju-ju in the smoke strong ju-ju. He knows many
things."

"Is that the only reason you have for coming?"