“That’s all right,” reassured the curator, as the others looked around questioningly. “The English offered the pygmies any amount of bribes for a single photograph of a woman, but they had all been moved up on the mountain and no amount of persuasion could get them to call one down. It means nothing hostile to us.” They seated themselves in the circle. The pygmy men carried no arms, but they could see weapons stacked against the trees near by, among them the thin, flat blades of the sinister bamboo knives used in head hunting. The feast went on merrily, the curator working out a system of learning pygmy words by pointing at objects and making the question sign. Speaking mixed Papuan and pygmy, a considerable conversation was being carried on. He managed to convey the idea that birds and insects were exchangeable for more of the beads, and then, finally, after a good deal of groping-- “Him want you-fellah stop prenty much time here,” explained Baderoon out of the tangle of words and signs. The curator shook his head and pointed southward, smiling. Instantly an angry look shot across the faces of the older men. They shook their heads vigorously, and some halting Papuan dialect followed. “Him say taboo. Prenty debbil-debbil mountain thataway,” translated Baderoon. “No good. Prenty hantus. Must go back!” He pointed north. The curator smiled. “Yes, we will--not! We might go back and circle around them, fellows--but, no, they’ll have scouts spying on us until we get out of the country, and it’ll be a jungle fight all the way to try to get past them to the south. No; we’ll have it out with them now!” “Tell them,” he said, sternly, “that the _Yow-nata_ is not afraid of any devil-devil, nor taboo, nor hantus.” An angry buzz greeted Baderoon’s translation. The little black-bearded men shook their heads violently, and some of them began to look around for their weapons. There were at least forty in the party. “Looks like a close-up!” muttered the curator, fumbling for his explosive bomb. “We’ll retreat in good order to the south, boys, if it comes to a fight. Perhaps if I show ’em this bomb it’ll take their minds off it for the present. Good to have it handy, anyhow.” All eyes were fixed on the shining bauble as he drew it forth. The effect, however, was somewhat different than he had intended. A fierce cupidity shone in the eyes of the old fellow of the trail--here was a bead that transcended all other beads in glory! “_Kema! Kema!_” (“Give! Give!”) he grunted, avidly, holding out his hand for it.