“If the favored one declines the honor, he insults the chief.” “Well?” “And that can never be forgiven.” “What do I care about that?” “Perhaps nothing; only----” “Don’t hesitate. You drive a fellow mad with your long pauses,” exclaimed Max, almost angrily. “Don’t get mad, there’s a good chap. They only roast the one who insults the chief.” “Really?” “Yes, really. It is true; ask any of them. Now I don’t want to be either roasted, baked, or boiled, so I will have to accept the drummers, only----” Again Ibrahim paused, and Max stood staring at him, but remained silent. “Only I shall delay as long as I can.” “We will get out of it.” “How?” “Leave that to me. I will find a way.” Before Ibrahim could ask again what plan had formulated itself in the madcap’s brain, M’Kamba, the deputy chief, came forward, and this time standing erect, said: “We will all drink araki now.” Ibrahim knew enough of the marriage customs of the African tribes to realize that the espousal of the girls was to take place at once, and that the drinking of the powerful araki was the outward symbol of the marriage. “It is all over with us,” sighed Ibrahim. “I don’t think so. Who has any araki?” “M’Kamba must have, or he would not have suggested it.” “Then let him bring the bottles here, and the girls shall drink first.” “You are a mystery, Max. What do you intend doing?” “Wait and see. Curb your impatience a little bit, there’s a good chap. Do just as I tell you, and all will be well.” Ibrahim approached M’Kamba and told him that Max was ready to open the araki bottles, and all should drink. “The great chief did send the araki for the wives,” answered M’Kamba, proving clearly that all had been arranged beforehand. The bottles--made of the bladders of cows, dried--were produced, and Max very quietly, in the presence of all, poured some white liquid in each of the bottles. Ibrahim looked on in astonishment. “Give a good drink to each of your wives, Ibrahim, but don’t touch a drop yourself.” “Is it poison, Max?” “On my honor, no.” The girls drank heartily. It was the gala day of their lives. They were about to become brides, and they felt their importance. While they were single they were slaves; when they were married they would become free. It was a proud time for them, and they took deep draughts of the powerful spirit. Then the Gondos took the bottles, and each man upheld the credit of his stomach by drinking pretty heavily. But the spirit was too strong. One by one the girls began to feel drowsy, and fell asleep. Then the men followed. In less than half an hour only Max and Ibrahim were awake. “Now is our time; we must run for it. They won’t wake for an hour.” “What did you give them?” “Sleeping potion--pretty stiff dose, too.” “What is that?” “What your uncle uses when he wishes anyone to sleep long.” “And you have some?”