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Ah, those M'tezo! Incurable heathen. He
had given them up long ago. Anyhow, they despised lying. They filed
their teeth, ate their superfluous female relations, swopped wives
every new moon, and never wore a stitch of clothes. A man who appeared
among the M'tezo in a fig-leaf would find himself in the cooking-pot
within five minutes.
How they attached themselves to his heart, those black fellows. Such
healthy animals! This spectacle, he discovered, was rather like
Africa--the same steamy heat, the same blaring noises, dazzling light,
and glowing colours; the same spirit of unconquerable playfulness in
grave concerns.
And the Bumbulis, the Kubangos, the Mugwambas! And the Bulanga--that
tribe whom Mr. Keith seemed to know so well! Really, the Bulanga were
the worst of the lot. Not fit to be talked about. And yet, somehow or
other, one could not help liking them. . . .
"Good morning, Bishop!" said a voice at his side. It was Mr. Keith. He
looked well washed and chubby in his spotless white clothes.


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