"Of course it is," said he. "And if you please, why shouldn't it be? My intelligence is far superior to theirs at the lowest estimate; and therefore I must know what's best for them. I order them to become members of my chapel, and they do it." "They do it like birds," Clay admitted. "You've got a fine grip over them." "I think they respect me." "Oh, they think you no end of a fine man. In fact they consider you, as I've said before, quite a little tin--" "Now stop it, Doc. I know you're one of those fellows that don't mean half they say, but I won't have that thrown against me, even in jest." "Well," said Clay, slily, "there's no getting over the fact that some person or persons unknown sacrificed a hen up against the door of this hut under cover of last night, and I guess they're not likely to waste the fowl on me." "One can't cure them of their old ways all at once," said Kettle, with a frown. "And some genius," Clay went on, "has carved a little wooden image in trousers and coat, nicely whitewashed, and stuck up on that old _ju-ju_ tree down there by the swamp. I saw it when I was down there this morning. Of course, it mayn't be intended to be a likeness of you, skipper, but it's got a pith helmet on, which the up-country nigger doesn't generally add to portraits of himself; and moreover, it's wearing a neat torpedo beard on the end of its chin, delicately colored vermilion." "Well?" said Kettle sourly. "Oh, that had got a hen sacrificed in front of it, too, that's all. I recognize the bird; he was a game old rooster that used to crow at me every time I passed him." "Beastly pagans," Kettle growled. "There's no holding some of them yet. They suck up the glad tidings like mother's milk at first, and they're back at their old ways again before you've taught them the tune of a hymn. I just want to catch one or two of these backsliders. By James! I'll give them fits in a way they won't forget." But if Captain Kettle was keen on the conversion of the heathen to the tenets of the Tyneside chapel, he was by no means forgetful of his commercial duties. He had always got Mrs. Kettle, the family, and the beauties of a home life in an agricultural district at the back of his mind, and to provide the funds necessary for a permanent enjoyment of all these items close at hand, he worked both Clay and himself remorselessly.