The missionary laughed again and invited him into his house. Billy at first had a nightmarish sensation as he stepped in; lizards, birds and things, some dried, some stuffed, some pickled in bottles, some stuck on cards--bugs and butterflies and flying squirrels and even some bright-scaled fish. “Have a little drink?” asked the missionary. “And here is a pipe and some tobacco--trade tobacco. Wretched stuff. Just make yourself at home. And tell me, what’s going on in the world? I’ve been here four years.” Billy reflected that this man might be a missionary, but he was a good judge of whiskey, though he took only a little for himself and after filling Billy’s glass put the bottle away. Later another drink for Billy alone was forthcoming; and he, already wanting to stay on and on with the missionary and not wanting him to think that he, Billy, was a murderer or something, up and told just what he would have told the judge if he had not been able to keep just about two jumps ahead of the detectives that were on his trail. Billy naively explained that he wasn’t going to confess to anybody that he had carried the money from a certain firm of paying contractors to a certain man that could--and did--control the awarding of paving contracts. “An’ was it police or a woman with you?” Billy inquired pointedly, feeling that an exchange of confidence was due. The missionary gave him a quick glance, then smiled and said that he was really a naturalist, but was officially a missionary because the Germans, who owned the Carolinas, were more agreeable to missionaries than to scientists--of other countries. “A woman,” Billy said to himself, noticing how handsome and young the missionary was. His name was Roscoe Tomlin. In the next few weeks they got well acquainted. Billy helped, as the natives did, to catch bugs and things and pickle them. He picked up a few words of the dialect and soon had the pickaninnies taking a great fancy to him. Then, just as Billy was getting settled to the new life and beginning to feel secure, a little steam yacht nosed cautiously into the mouth of the bay. The natives made a dash for the beach, tumbled into canoes and went splashing out to give greetings and get presents. Tomlin was off in the bush chasing bugs and things. Billy, not being anxious to receive visitors himself, went near the beach and reclined behind a convenient rock. Presently he saw a boat dropped from the davits. People got into it. One of them was a woman. They landed on the beach and, in about two minutes, Billy sauntered out to make sure that she was as pretty as she looked. The men who had rowed ashore stayed in the boat, but she got out with a little man who had a Vandyke beard, a cap and doublebreasted serge coat. “No detective,” said Billy reassuringly to himself, “would attempt that disguise.” “Hello,” said the little fellow seeing that Billy was a white man.