Free Bones of the River by Edgar Wallace

Maxim.
    Bones spoke the Bomongo tongue as fluently as a native. He had at his command a range of native imagery which covered all things growing and living. And he talked rapidly and convincingly on the laws of property, and the right of men to eminence. They listened in silence, N’shimba scowling.
    When he had finished, they allowed him to go without molestation, Bones in triumph sent a message by pigeon to head-quarters.
     
    “Settled Isisi perlarver. Talked them sily. Knockked ideas out of their joly old crayniums.”
     
    Bones had never been strong on spelling.
    He had sent the message when Ahmed came to him with news and something in his hand.
    “Lord, whilst you made palaver with these boys, the chik-chik sought you in the village, and this came in the very street before the king’s house.”
    Bones looked at the egg in the man’s hand and jumped up, his eyes bulging.
    It was jet black!
    “Moses!” he gasped, and then, in Arabic: “Who saw this?”
    “All people, and they were frightened.”
    “Phew!” said Bones, and turned reproachful eyes upon Florence, who was balancing herself on the back of a chair.
    “You’re a naughty, naughty girl!” said Bones. “Yes, you are.”
    Florence made the noise which, in all well-regulated chickens, is the equivalent to a purr.
    An hour later came N’shimba.
    “Lord,” he said respectfully, “there is talk of a wonderful black egg. Now give this to me, and I will be strong for you.”
    “Man, I am strength itself,” said Bones quietly. “As to a black egg, I know of none.”
    N’shimba went away without protesting further.
    At three o’clock, in the dead of the night, the sentry on duty on the Wiggle saw a figure crawling stealthily along the deck plank, and shot at it without warning. Bones, running out of his cabin, saw a dead man lying in the light of Sergeant Ahmet’s lantern, and the knife clenched between the bared teeth told its own story.
    With four men he reached the village. Happily, he had not gone far before the Young Hearts’ attack was launched. Fighting his way back to the river, Bones cast off the two steel hawsers as the forerunners of the Young Hearts reached the beach. The Wiggle possessed no searchlight, but she carried two Maxim guns, and they sprayed the beach industriously.
    In midstream he anchored whilst steam was being raised, and at dawn came a solitary canoe, paddled by a trembling man, who handed up something in a native sack, something that was heavy and wet. Bones guessed the contents before the dead face of the king Bugulu stared up at him.
    “Man, who sent this?” he asked the shivering messenger.
    “Lord, it was N’shimba,” said the man, his teeth chattering. “Also, he spoke to me thus: ‘Say to Tibbetti, that I am N’shimba, King of the Isisi and of the Akasava, and of all the peoples of the mountains, and the highest man in all the land. Bring me the black egg and you shall live.’”
    Bones did not hesitate. “I go with you,” he said, for he knew that the Isisi were night fighters, and that no man would lift spear to him in the open day.
    He went ashore. The body of the old king lay stark in the village street, and Bones saw a dead woman lying where she had been speared, and two old men whose age had been an offence.
    No man hindered him as he walked slowly to the new king’s hut, but the silence was ominous, and, to Bones, menacing.
    Before the old king’s hut sat N’shimba, the medal of kingship about his neck.
    “I see you, white man; give me my pretty egg and you shall live.”
    Bones took something from his pocket and put it in the new king’s hand.
    “N’shimba, by magic this thing was born, and it is an egg like none other I have ever seen. Hold it fast, king, and presently your devil shall come out and speak to you, but I must not be here nor any other.”
    N’shimba nodded gravely. “Let this man go,” he said, and Bones walked quickly down the village street.
    His foot was in the