One night, in Moreton’s house, I had a curious and uncanny experience. I was sitting at the table, writing a long dispatch which engaged all my attention; my table was in the middle of the room, and on my right and left hand respectively there were two doors, one opening on to the front and the other on to the back verandah of the house; both doors were closed and fastened with ordinary wooden latches, which could not possibly open of their own accord as a spring lock might do; the floor of the room in which I was, was made of heavy teak-wood boards, nailed down; the floor of the verandah being constructed of lathes of palm, laced together with native string. As I wrote, I became conscious that both doors were wide open and—hardly thinking what I was doing—got up, closed them both and went on writing; a few minutes later, I heard footsteps upon the coral path leading up to the house, they came across the squeaky palm verandah, my door opened and the footsteps went across the room, and—as I raised my eyes from my dispatch—the other door opened, and they passed across the verandah and down again on to the coral. I paid very little attention to this at first, having my mind full of the subject about which I was writing, but half thought that either Poruma or Giorgi, both of whom were in the kitchen, had passed through the room; however, I again rose and absent-mindedly shut both doors for the second time.

Some time later, once more the footsteps came, crash crash on the coral, squeak squeak on the verandah, again my door opened and the squeak changed to the tramp of booted feet on the boarded floor; as I looked to see who it was, the tramp passed close behind my chair and across the room to the door, which opened, then again the tramp changed to the squeak and the squeak to the crash on the coral. I was by this time getting very puzzled, but, after a little thought, decided my imagination was playing me tricks, and that I had not really closed the doors when I thought I had. I made certain, however, that I did close them this time, and went on with my work again. Once more the whole thing was repeated, only this time I rose from the table, took my lamp in my hand, and gazed hard at the places on the floor from which the sound came, but could see nothing.

Then I went on to the verandah and yelled for Giorgi and Poruma. “Who is playing tricks here?” I asked in a rage. Before Poruma could answer, again came the sound of footsteps through my room. “I did not know that you had any one with you,” said Poruma in surprise, as he heard the steps. “I have no one with me, but somebody keeps opening my door and walking about,” I replied, “and I want him caught.” “No one would dare come into the Government compound and play tricks on the R.M.,” said Poruma, “unless he were mad.” I was by this time thoroughly angry. “Giorgi, go to the guard-house, send up the gate-keeper and all the men there, then go to the gaol and send Manigugu (the gaoler) and all his warders; then send to the Siai for her men; I mean to get to the bottom of all this fooling.” The gate-keeper arrived, and swore he had locked the gate at ten o’clock, that no other than Government people had passed through before that hour; that since then, until Giorgi went for him, he had been sitting on his verandah with some friends, and nobody could have passed without his knowledge. Then came the men from the gaol and the Siai, and I told them some scoundrel had been playing tricks upon me and I wanted him caught.

First they searched the house, not a big job, as there were only three rooms furnished with spartan simplicity; that being completed, I placed four men with lanterns under the house, which was raised on piles about four feet from the ground: at the back and front and sides I stationed others, until it was impossible for a mouse to have entered or left that house unseen. Then again I searched the house myself; after which Poruma, Giorgi and I shut the doors of my room and sat inside. Exactly the same thing occurred once more; through that line of men came the footsteps, through my room in precisely the same manner came the tread of a heavily-booted man, then on to the palm verandah, where—in the now brilliant illumination—we could see the depression at the spots from which the sound came, as though a man were stepping there. “Well, what do you make of it?” I asked my men. “No man living could have passed unseen,” was the answer; “it’s either the spirit of a dead man or a devil.” “Spirit of dead man or devil, it’s all one to me,” I remarked; “if it’s taken a fancy to prance through my room, it can do so alone; shift my things off to the Siai for the night.”

The following day I sought out Armit. “Do you know anything about spooks?” I asked; “because something of that nature has taken a fancy to Moreton’s house.” “Moreton once or twice hinted at something of the sort,” said Armit, “but he would never speak out; I will come and spend to-night with you, and we will investigate.” Armit came, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred; nor did I ever hear of it afterwards, and before a year had elapsed the house had been pulled down. When Moreton returned, I related my experience to him, and he then told me that one night, when he was sleeping in his hammock, he was awakened by footsteps, such as I have described, and upon his calling out angrily to demand who was making the racket, his hammock was violently banged against the wall. “I didn’t care to say anything about it,” he said, “as I was alone at the time, and didn’t want to be laughed at.”

I have told this story for what it is worth: I leave my readers, who are interested in the occult or psychical research, to form what opinion they choose; all I say is, that the story, as I have related it, is absolutely true.

Some few days after Moreton had resumed his duties, the Merrie England came in with Sir William on board, and his Excellency told me that as Ballantine, the Treasurer and Collector of Customs, had broken down in health, it was necessary for him to be relieved at once, and that I was to take up his duties. I protested that I knew nothing about accountants’ work or book-keeping, and respectfully declined the appointment. “You can do simple addition and subtraction, that’s all I want; find your way to Port Moresby as soon as you can,” was all the Governor replied. Then the Merrie England left; and I consulted Moreton. “The Lord help you, laddie,” said he; “you will make a devil of a mess of it, but you must do what Jock says.” Then Armit. “You must take it, or you will never get another job; but you will be all right if you sit tight, and refuse to sign anything without the authority of the Governor or Government Secretary.” Then I went to Arbouine and unfolded my tale of woe. “Oh, that’s all right,” said he; “I will write a line to Gors, our manager at Port Moresby, and if you get stuck, he will lend you a good clerk for a day or two, who will keep you all right.”

Then I resigned myself to the inevitable; Treasurer and Collector of Customs I had to be. The next thing was to find my way to Port Moresby, and break the news to Ballantine. A steamer came in, the Mount Kembla, an Australian-owned boat recently chartered to carry coal to German New Guinea; Burns, Philp and Co. were the agents, and upon my going to book a passage to Port Moresby, Arbouine said, “This vessel is bound by her insurances to carry a pilot in New Guinea waters; I can’t let her leave here without one, and you are the only man I can get hold of capable of acting as a local pilot.” “Damn it all,” I said, “I only want a passage, and you can hardly expect the Acting Treasurer and Collector of Customs of New Guinea to act as your blanky pilot.” “Oh, all right,” said Arbouine, “if you don’t sign on as pilot, the ship won’t leave.”

Eventually I did take on the job as pilot of the Mount Kembla, and left for Port Moresby. She was an iron collier with iron decks, and utterly unsuited for tropical work; hardly had we got out of Samarai Harbour, before the skipper, a nice, genial little man, came to me, and said, “I’m feeling very ill, for Heaven’s sake look after the ship.” I looked at him and, taking his temperature with a clinical thermometer, found he was in a high state of fever. “Get away to bed, man,” I said, “and I will dose you.” Then I told the mate to fill him up with brandy and quinine. “I can’t do it, pilot,” said the mate; “everything is in the lazerette and under Government seals, and I dare not break them.” I soon settled that by smashing the seals myself, meanwhile explaining to the mate that the ship’s pilot happened to be the Collector of Customs for the Possession. “My God!” said the mate, “I’ve been in the coal trade all my life, and been in many parts of the world, but I have never been in a country like this before.” I took the Mount Kembla safely into Port Moresby, from whence she departed two days later; and, to my regret, I afterwards heard that hardly had she cleared the harbour before her nice little skipper died.

Leaving the Mount Kembla, I went to the office of the Government Secretary, the Hon. Anthony Musgrave, and told him I had been sent by the Governor to relieve Ballantine. “I suppose, Mr. Monckton, you have had previous experience of accountancy and audit work?” said Mr. Musgrave. “On the contrary,” was my reply, “if you searched New Guinea from end to end, you could not find a man more blankly ignorant of the subject.” Muzzy—as he was generally termed in the service—gasped. “Did you tell the Governor that?” he asked. “Of course I did; but he seemed to think that a man who knew navigation and could do simple addition and subtraction was all he required,” was my reply. Muzzy sighed, and then sent for Ballantine and introduced me to him, after which, he gladly washed his hands of the matter. Ballantine was very nice and kind about it all. “You had better work with me for a few days,” he said, “it’s not all quite as simple as his Excellency appears to imagine.” Three days satisfied me that the job was quite beyond me; Ballantine was doing sums all day long, and could do work, in five minutes, that would take me a full day. At the end of the three days, I got him to accompany me to the Government Secretary, to whom I pointed out, that if I were to carry out the Treasurer’s duties for one month, at the end of that time it would require at least ten clerks and one expert accountant to unravel the tangle. “What am I to do?” said Mr. Musgrave. “Sir William must be obeyed.” Ballantine also intimated that he was Registrar for Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and that, as the Death Register had not been written up for some years, I might delve into piles of letters and papers reporting deaths, and write it up; to which cheerful occupation I betook myself.

Meanwhile, Muzzy caught Dr. Blayney, R.M. for the Central Division, and told him that he was to act as Treasurer, etc.; Blayney undertook it with a light heart, but three days of it reduced him to a mass of perspiring and swearing humanity. Again came a council of war. “Bramell, Government Agent at Mekeo, is an expert accountant,” said Ballantine; “fetch him here to act as clerk to Blayney, and send Monckton to Mekeo as Assistant R.M.” “The very thing,” said the Government Secretary. I accordingly was sworn in as Assistant R.M. for the Central Division; and, a few days later, Blayney took me to my new district in his patrol vessel, the Lokohu, a sister ship to the Siai.

Mekeo Station, at this time, was situated some twenty miles inland, amongst a fairly thick and troublesome population. It had originally been opened by the late John Green; he was followed by Kowald, who was killed on the Musa; then Bramell was appointed. The Station consisted of an officer’s house—the usual three-roomed affair—constabulary barracks, gaol, storerooms, drill ground, and about twenty acres of gardens; the buildings and drill ground were surrounded by a high and strong stockade. The Station was originally established to protect the missionaries of the Sacred Heart Order, who were penetrating into the country. The Mekeo natives were a cowardly, treacherous, and cruel lot, much under the influence of sorcerers, and averse to control by the Government. Blayney, some four weeks previously, had swooped through the villages and arrested every sorcerer he could find; he told me that the villagers would not give evidence against them unless he undertook to kill them, so that they could not return to exact vengeance. Blayney accordingly simply convicted them upon discovering any implements of their trade in their houses, such as charms, skulls, snakes, etc.

Upon our arrival at the Government Station, Bramell received us with very mixed feelings. “I am glad to get out of this hole,” he said, “but it seems I have got an Irishman’s rise.” Blayney, after staying a day, went off again, but Bramell stayed a little while to put me in the way of things, and a cheery way of things they appeared to me. He showed me his bedroom closely shut up, and his bed surrounded by a circle of tables, upon each one of which he had deposited loaded firearms. “What on earth is all that for?” I asked. “Sorcerers,” he replied; “they are the most poisonous brutes, and keep me perpetually on the jump; how they get in I don’t know, but get in they do, and put snakes and other beastliness in my bed. Arrows, too, come over the stockade in the night and light anywhere, though we can never catch the men shooting them; on dark nights we have frequently discovered strangers prowling about the houses, but up to now, they have always managed to get over the stockade before we could catch them. The beggars are always trying to poison me too; don’t you ever buy cocoanuts with the husks off, or anything else into which they can possibly have inserted poison; they have contrived to kill three boys in succession carrying my mails to the coast; the boys are all supposed to have died from accidental snake bite, but I know better.”

After having given me all the information in his power about the working of the district, and having completed the formality of handing it over, Bramell left for the coast to take ship for Port Moresby, being escorted by half a dozen constabulary. I spent a week overhauling the last year’s reports from the Station, and getting a grip, as best I could, of the trend of affairs in the past. I soon saw that the district was out of hand, and would require fairly strong measures in dealing with it; I saw also that it was not Bramell’s fault, for he had not sufficient authority as a Government Agent and Native Magistrate to keep the people in order: my appointment, however, carried the full powers of a Resident Magistrate.

A few days after his departure, one of the nocturnal visitors was discovered in the compound, but as usual he streaked over the stockade and disappeared, leaving several poisonous snakes behind him. The Mekeo constabulary could not hit an elephant in the dark with their rifles, much less a running man. I began to feel nearly as annoyed with the sorcerers as Bramell, and determined to cure them of coming inside the stockade: accordingly I drew the shot from several gun cartridges, and replaced it with coarse bluestone, and then I gave the sentry my gun with the doctored cartridges instead of his rifle; next I pulled the bullet out of a rifle cartridge belonging to each private, and replaced it with mixed bluestone and dust shot. “Now,” I explained to the men, who hated the sorcerers as thoroughly as did Bramell, “I’m going to play sorcery against sorcery; I have charmed these cartridges, so that if you hold your rifle firmly, take plenty of time in aiming at a sorcerer at night, and he is a true sorcerer, you can’t miss him.”

In the gaol I had found Poruta, a son of Bushimai, one of the Mambare prisoners who had given me the trouble at Samarai, they having been scattered among the different gaols. I took Poruta, who was very lonely amongst a strange people, as my private attendant; I had plenty of work for the constabulary, without taking one as an orderly, and I did not feel keen on having a local boy as servant, for fear that he might insert something in my grub or a snake in my bed. Poruta—like all the Binandere people—had no fear of the dark, and was a born fighter; he took a keen interest in my plans for the discomfiture of the sorcerers, though he thought that all of them should be sought out and dealt with, with a club. He pointed out that the sentry always stood in one place—a place that must be perfectly well known to our night visitors—and also that the police, with the exception of two on my verandah, were always grouped about the barracks. “I would undertake,” said Poruta, “under the present system, to come inside the stockade every night and escape unseen. Make four men lie flat on their stomachs in the middle of the drill ground, each man watching the sky-line on one side of the stockade, and they are bound to see any man climbing over.” I did this; but I also tied a string on to the toe of the corporal in the barracks, and led it into the midst of the four watchers, so that they could alarm the barracks without noise, and also without giving any warning to our night visitors.

The very first night that the plan was tried, it worked excellently. Watching the sky-line carefully, one of the sentries noticed a head appear, followed by a second one; gently touching his three companions, he directed their attention to the intruders; immediately one fowling piece and three rifles, loaded with small shot and bluestone, converged on the figures of two men, as, flat on their stomachs, they slid sideways over the fence, and then gently began to lower themselves on the inner side. In their excitement, each of the four sentries forgot to pull the string attached to the corporal’s toe. Bang went all the guns together, an awful series of shrieks went up from the smitten intruders, as they hastily hauled themselves back over the stockade, and fled howling into the night. At the same time the air was rent by fearful yells and curses from the barracks; the police, at the sound of the shots, had hastily jumped to their feet and rushed out; man after man tumbled over and tangled himself up with the line attached to the corporal’s toe, thereby nearly dragging off that much enduring member.

For weeks after this, we were untroubled by nocturnal visitors; and by every one on the Station—bar the corporal—the plan was regarded as a gigantic success. My fame as a charmer of rifles, for use against sorcerers, spread through the land. I never found out who our two visitors were, but I will wager they never forgot their experience that night.

The next thing to which I had to turn my attention, was the straightening up of the detachment of constabulary; they showed a slackness and lack of smartness that I did not like. On the drill ground they appeared willing enough, but they could neither march, shoot, nor drill decently. I slanged the non-com. in charge, who was a Western man, but came from a different tribe and village to the rest of the men. “I can’t do anything with them, sir,” he said; “whenever Mr. Bramell was away they would not drill, and now, if you are not on parade, they only play the fool and cheek me.” I drilled and cursed the men myself, but they merely said that their non-com. was a liar, and that their behaviour was immaculate. For a long time I could never get hold of any specific instance of disrespect or disobedience to the non-com.; at last, however, I caught them, and this is the way I did it.

I went one night to the Mission house, taking with me Poruta and half a dozen constabulary; arriving there, I sent off the police, telling them I meant to stay the night with the missionary. I had previously told the non-com. to station a gaol warder—a countryman of his own—at the gate instead of a private, and to tell him to hold his tongue as to the hour I came home. Returning at about five o’clock in the morning, I was admitted by the warder, went straight to my house, which overlooked the parade ground, and got into bed without striking a light. Poruta slept in my room. Daylight and six o’clock came, and I was awakened by the yells of the non-com. parading his men; peeping out, I saw them come slowly strolling on to the drill ground and languidly fall in, some wearing fatigue kit of cotton, some full dress of serge, some without belts, and some without jumpers; one shining light fell in attired in the white “sulu” he slept in, some smoked in the ranks, others chattered, and they drilled like a newly enlisted volunteer company. For half an hour I watched the beauties, and listened to them answering back their non-com., who cursed and beseeched alternately.

Then I buckled on my belts, and walked slowly down my steps and up to the squad, watching them stiffen and their eyes start, as they saw the unexpected apparition of their officer. “I think I will finish the drill, Corporal,” I remarked; then to the squad, “Pile arms!” and they piled arms. Then I inspected man after man, ordering each one that I found incompletely dressed to strip to the buff and fall in for physical drill. Only one man, Private Keke, passed inspection; and I made him lance-corporal on the spot. After this, I drilled that unhappy squad until sweat ran down their brown bodies in streams; winding up by sending them at the double straight up against the stockade, at which they instinctively stopped. “I did not tell you to halt, you slack-backed pig-stealers; your meat rations and tobacco are stopped for a week; forward!” Over the stockade that sweating detachment went. “About turn!” Back they came; and I kept them at it until they were falling from the top, instead of jumping, from sheer exhaustion. Then I halted them on the parade ground again, and made a little speech; telling them that I was weak from shame at having to do with such a lot of feeble wasters, and that I felt certain the Commandant had made a mistake, and sent to Mekeo a sanitary gang—or something of that sort—instead of a detachment of constabulary. Their disgraceful exhibition had made me feel so faint, that I must go and breakfast, but meanwhile they would stand at attention.

I went to breakfast and lingered over it; then I returned to my depressed squad. “You have already lost your meat and tobacco for halting without orders; do it again, and I will clap the whole lot of you into gaol and feed you on pumpkins, until the Commandant can send me some real constabulary from headquarters.” Then I marched them into the garden, where, after doubling them about in extended order for some time, I suddenly wheeled them up to about an acre of pine-apples—horribly prickly things—and then, “Double! Charge!” Into the awful things went those naked men, whilst I yelled curses at them for breaking line. When they were fairly in the middle, I shouted, “Halt!” and then remarked, “I think you have had your lesson, pick your way out of the prickles and go to your breakfast; I don’t think you will want me to do your non-com.’s duty again in a hurry.” Leaving the men to crawl out as best they could, I went back to my house, where, shortly after, Corporal Sara came to get braid for Keke’s stripe. “They will give no further trouble,” he remarked; “they are blood from their thighs to the soles of their feet, and most of them are crying from pain and shame; but they won’t be fit to march for another week.”

On looking into things at Mekeo Station, I found that a vast number of economic plants had been planted by Kowald, who was an expert botanist, for experimental purposes; and that there was a strict order from Sir William MacGregor that they should receive every care and attention. I knew nothing about them; cinchona was the same to me as cocoa, a rubber plant as a coffee plant; vanilla, hemp, and the rest were as Hebrew, and not a man in the detachment—-as was naturally to be expected—knew any more. Also I found that I had not a man that could read or write, or who was really fit to be in charge of the Station during my absence; accordingly I sent a loud wail to Blayney that I must have a Station-keeper, with a knowledge of plantation work and capable of keeping books, otherwise I should chuck the work at once. Blayney promptly sent me Basilio, a Manilla man, an excellent fellow, who immediately flung himself into his new duties with great zeal. By the time he arrived, I had got my police as sharp as terriers, and ready for anything in the way of work.

Basilio brought me a mail from Hall Sound, the port of the Mekeo district; among the letters I found one from a German trader and copra buyer in the Gulf of Papua, stating that he was constantly being robbed and threatened by the natives, and went in constant fear for his life; he also referred to several previous letters, and said that if his present complaint was not attended to, he would shortly be a murdered man. I looked through the Station correspondence, and found several letters from the man, making complaints against the natives, the letters being marked in Bramell’s writing with “rot,” “more rot,” “bunkum,” “sheer funk.” I read them all, and thought to myself, “This chap may be merely crying wolf when there is no wolf; but if he does happen to get killed, his Excellency will want some one upon whom to vent his wrath, and it strikes me I shall be the victim.” Therefore I prepared to go into the Gulf in the whaleboat: when I remark that it was the South-East season, and meant a trip against a heavy sea, current, and head wind, with a big surf to land through every night, it will be seen that the prospect was not cheerful.

For some days the police nearly pulled their insides out, forcing the whaleboat in the teeth of the south-easter; for several nights regularly, whaler, police, and myself were capsized in the surf, when we were landing to camp, and rolled up upon the beach in a heap, all our belongings, which were lashed to the boat, being soaked with salt water. Blistered by the sun, hands raw from tugging at the oars, and bruised all over from the bumps as we rolled upon coral beaches, at last we made the complaining German trader’s Station, and I asked him what all the trouble was about, as his Station appeared quite happy and peaceful, and the natives very friendly. “A few months ago I had a few cocoanuts stolen,” he said. “Well,” I asked, “what about all your stories of imminent battle, murder, and sudden death?” “I thought that it was time the Government looked me up, and I had better pitch things a bit strong, or they would not bother,” he had the ineffable impudence to remark. “You German swine,” I said, “you have made me risk my life, and the lives of a dozen men, coming here, merely to pander to your sense of importance; if I can get the slightest excuse, I’ll gaol you.” Unfortunately I could get no excuse for doing so; accordingly, I had to content myself with blackguarding him up hill and down dale before leaving, and telling him that the natives could eat him, before I would move a man to his assistance again. If he had been a native, I could have given him a fortnight’s gaol for sending a lying report, but unfortunately that law did not apply to white men.

Whilst in the Gulf, I received constant complaints about the doings—or rather misdoings—of a strange nomadic inland tribe, called by the coastal natives Kuku Kuku; people who apparently appeared unexpectedly, and hovered about the coastal villages, snapping up stray men, women, and children, and cutting off their heads; then vanishing into the unknown. I promised the villagers that, in the near future, the Government would deal with the Kuku Kuku people, but that I had too much other work at present; in any case, my whaler’s complement was not sufficient for an inland expedition.

I also heard of the existence of a secret society called the Kaiva Kuku, the members of which assembled fully disguised in strange masks and cloaks, and went through secret ceremonies and ritual; branches and agents of it also existed in every coastal village. I did not like this at all, thinking that probably many of the murders and crimes alleged against the Kuku Kuku were offences committed by this secret society. I did not stay long enough in the Mekeo district to have any dealings with the Kaiva Kuku, but, from what I heard of the society whilst I was there, I believe that they were a set of blood-thirsty, terrorizing, and blackmailing scoundrels, badly needing stamping out. In later years, when Captain Barton was R.M. of the Division, I gave him my views about native secret societies, and the Kaiva Kuku in particular; but he held they might be a benevolent organization, created for the suppression of immorality and vice. My own opinion was, that they were bad, and existed merely for the purpose of carrying out unnameable rites and beastliness, this being borne out by the history of all native races among which secret societies were established; also I held that the morality and conduct of a village or tribe were better maintained by a Government Chief, or village constable, acting openly, than by secret tribunals.

Secret societies—to the extent of my experience—only exist in British New Guinea west of Yule Island; and bestiality, human sacrifice, incest, and other abominable crimes, have never been heard of out of the regions in which such societies hold their sway; the natural inference, therefore, is that there is some connection between them. I can see no reason to justify any Government official in permitting the existence of such societies in any district over which he holds control, unless he means to shirk his responsibilities and abuse the powers entrusted to him by Government in favour of an organization of which he can know nothing. I do not wish to dogmatie; but I hold—after many years’ experience and intimate connection with natives—that a magistrate is fully justified, once he finds any man or body of men pretending to esoteric, occult or supermundane powers, in smashing that man or society, even if he has to use force to do it. Secret societies can do no possible good amongst any race of people, and they possess tremendous potentialities for harm and injustice. Every Englishman would rise in horror at the thought of having the old Spanish Inquisition established again; therefore let every Englishman see to it that, among the native races he governs, no similar thing can possibly exist.

Returning from the Gulf, a storm compelled me to beach the whaleboat at Maiva, a collection of villages just east of Cape Possession, where I found a violent epidemic raging among the people, and was told that it was spreading like wildfire amongst all the villages of the Mekeo district. Here I hauled up the whaleboat and had a house built over her, as I saw I must quickly get to my Station in order to procure fresh police and be able to devote my whole attention to dealing with the sickness, which I could see was going to be no light undertaking. Leaving my whaleboat safely housed to protect her from the sun, I marched my police as rapidly as possible overland to the Station; we arrived there a couple of hours after nightfall on the second day, the whole squad of men accompanying me being—like myself—utterly tired and worn out.

Basilio came to my house whilst I sat waiting for Poruta to prepare some food for me, and, after watching the tired Poruta for a few minutes, he volunteered to make me a Malay curry and let him go to the barracks to sleep. Poruta accordingly was sent off to bed; whilst I—after listening for a short time to an unusual and angry hum from the native village of Veipa, situated a short distance beyond our gate—also dropped off to sleep. Basilio woke me up a little later, and directed my attention to a table spread in Malay fashion with food, consisting of an excellent curry and the choicest of the Station’s garden fruit; he then sat down and waited until I had finished.

“What the devil is the meaning of the row in the village, Basilio?” I asked, by way of beginning the conversation. “It is humming like a swarm of angry bees.” “I don’t know, sir; but twice the fathers have sent here to-day asking for you, and I have answered that you were away, and I did not know when you would return.” Basilio was a devout R.C., and invariably referred to the Sacred Heart missionaries as “the fathers.” “I have warned Corporal Sara to keep ten men under arms,” he went on, “as I am certain there is trouble of some sort brewing, over the sickness of the people; ten have died in Veipa since you left, and the sorcerers say it is either the fault of the Government or of the Mission.” “Send a couple of men to the Mission house at once,” I said, “and ask Fathers Bouellard or Vitali to let me know what the trouble is.” Basilio sent the men off; meanwhile the angry hum from the village rose to a yapping, snarling note, that I did not like.

The Mekeo detachment, at this time, was the only one in New Guinea armed with bayonets. The strain on my nerves became rather greater than I could stand; therefore I bolted to the barracks and told Sara to turn out every available man to be ready for action in the village. Hardly had the men paraded with bayonets fixed, than back came my two men. “The Veipa villagers are fighting,” they said, “arrows are flying thick, and the fathers are trying to pacify them; unless you are quick, the missionaries will be killed.” Hastily I doubled my men down the path to the village, which I found lit up by enormous bonfires, while two opposite factions of villagers were wildly shooting arrows and fighting savagely; Fathers Vitali and Bouellard, with several brothers of the Mission, were dancing about among them and endeavouring to maintain peace. Veipa village had a nice wide straight street, in which the riot was going on; swinging my men into line at the end of it, I bid them charge. No one was killed, though a few bayonets bit deep, and a few skulls were damaged by the butt ends; in five minutes the natives were flying howling to their houses. Then I gathered up the fathers and took them off to supper with me, leaving a patrol to keep the village in order. “The good God sent you in time,” said Father Vitali; “we thought you were away, and that it was the revolution.” “After I have had a little sleep, I think the villagers of Veipa will think it is the revolution,” I remarked. “I will warrant them tribulation.” Later I had the two priests escorted home, and at the same time sent a message to the patrol, that they were to bully and bang the inhabitants about as much as possible, and also that they were to tell the natives that, if so much as a piece of soft mud touched the good fathers or sisters, I would make them believe that millions of devils were loose among them. “Remind them,” I said to the patrol, “of what happened to the two sorcerers climbing my fence, and tell them that I am devising a worse punishment still for them, if they offend further.”

The following afternoon, I sent for the village constable of Veipa and withdrew the patrol, as I heard from the priests that all was now quiet, and the people waiting in a chastened frame of mind for the punishment to come. The explanation of the riot, given to me by the village constable, was that several deaths had occurred, and, in compliance with Government Regulations, the bodies had been buried in the allotted cemetery; then several more people died and the village was filled with fear and wailing. Now came the sorcerers’ opportunity; and they promptly improved it by preaching to the people, that the plague had come upon them for abandoning the old practices of the tribe, in favour of Government and Mission ways. “Did we have deaths like this, when we buried our dead under the floors of the houses?” they asked, answering themselves, “No!” Then—instigated by the sorcerers—the natives began again to bury their newly dead in the houses, whilst others dug up those already in the cemetery, for removal to the village. The constable and Government chief had asked the fathers to come and help them to persuade the villagers to obey the law; but by the time the fathers could come, feeling between the factions—respectively obeying the constable and the sorcerers—was running high: arguments, threats, and persuasion having failed, the constable started removing the bodies by force, and the riot began. “Where is the chief sorcerer?” I asked. “He ran away when the row began,” was the reply. “Why did you not arrest him?” “I did suggest it,” said the v.c., “but he threatened to smite me with a wasting sickness, if I touched him.”

The village constable then reeled off a list of offenders and law-defying men in his village, which I wrote down, and then sent him off to tell them to come to me at once; they came—about forty of them—some looking sulky or sullen, some angry, and some frightened. “Tell them, Basilio, to sit down in a line in front of me.” They sat down; the v.c., glad to get a little revenge, hastening the laggards by sharp blows with his truncheon.

“Now,” I remarked, “I have heard a lot about sorcery since I came here, I am going to treat you to a little. Basilio, tell them to look at my eyes as I pass down the line, and tell me what they notice!” “Well?” I asked, when they had all looked, “what do they see?” “They say your eyes are not as the eyes of other men, alike in colour, but differ one from the other.” “Very true,” I said, as I stepped back a dozen feet where all could see me plainly. “Now tell them to look at my mouth,” and I grinned, showing an excellent set of false teeth. They looked. “Well?” “They see strong white teeth,” Basilio interpreted, smothering a grin as he guessed what was coming. Turning my back for a second, I dropped my false teeth into my handkerchief and, swinging round again, exposed a row of toothless gums. A yell of horror and amazement went up, and fearful glances were cast behind for somewhere whither to bolt. I swept my handkerchief before my mouth, and again grinned a glistening toothful grin. There were no sulky or defiant glances now, nothing but looks of abject fear and horror. “Ask them, Basilio, whether in all their villages, there is a sorcerer that can do such a thing as that?” “No,” was the answer, “the white chief is greater than them all.”

“Now explain to them,” I said, “that the white men know more witchcraft than their own sorcerers, but they do not practise it, as it is an evil thing. I am going to make things uncommonly hot for the sorcerers in this district: the first one I catch, I will show to you what a feeble thing he is; for I will smell at a glass of clear water and then make him smell it, and he will jump into the air and fall as a dead man.” A wonderful effect can be obtained with half a wineglass of strong ammonia, I may remark in passing. “Basilio, tell them I am going to punish them but lightly this time; but if I have to deal with this particular lot again, they will get something to remember. First of all, they will return to the village and remove the corpses to the cemetery; then they will clean up the village thoroughly; after that, they will return here and work in the gardens for a week without pay, and will cool their hot blood by living exclusively upon pumpkins.”

The v.c. then asked permission to make a speech to his people; he had been as much surprised as any one at my performance, but also regarded it as throwing reflected glory upon himself. He pointed out to them, that all this trouble had fallen upon them through neglecting his good advice and defying his authority; perhaps now they would see what a pattern he was for them to follow! He then began to take them individually to task, and to rake up past misdoings on their part that had escaped retribution; but here I cut the worthy constable short, and told him to conclude his remarks while they cleaned the village. I heard afterwards that he stood on a platform in Veipa, and inflicted a two hours’ oration on his unfortunate people. The next day the village constables from a dozen villages came in, to tell me that the people—with the exception of the Veipa villagers—were burying their dead in their houses, but that all the sorcerers had skipped for the bush.