Meantime Keli had become accomplished to the extent of knowing French and English and five native dialects. But, alas! how destitute of moral power is civilization alone! Keli did not seem to have any moral ideas. The restraining fear of his former fetishism had been expelled, and no moral motive implanted. His morality was much below that of the average Bulu, except in the shedding of blood. Nothing but long familiarity can make that an indifferent matter to any man however degraded; and Keli had a horror of blood. We took him home with us to Efulen and made him cook and houseboy, for we were in our usual strait at the time. He knew his work well and was unapproached in service for the short time that he behaved. But at the first opportunity, one Sunday during the service, Keli captured and stole a chicken, the mother of a young brood. He strewed feathers along a bush-path to make believe that a wild animal had taken it. Of course it will be remembered that among a people who have so little, a chicken is one of the high values. The theft was not insignificant in the mind of the Bulu. But for us the really serious import of the matter was that it raised the question as to whether they could steal from us with impunity, or with any possibility of not being detected. They had never attempted it before, being restrained by the dread of our supposed fetishes, which Keli knew to be a delusion. I need not say that we had never fostered the delusion, yet it had served a providential use. It was now likely to be dispelled and we were not certain as to the consequences. Keli immediately killed the chicken and gave it to a Bulu man, his accomplice, who wrapped it in a loin-cloth and took it to his town while Keli himself came running to me in great distress, as soon as the service was concluded, telling a most interesting story of a bushcat that he had seen just as it was disappearing with the chicken, and how he had given chase and had tried to rescue it. Of course I suspected himself, but I said nothing until, by a chain of evidence that I have forgotten, I traced it to him. We made him a prisoner, and Dr. Good soon wrung a confession from him. He said he would find the chicken—which, however, having lost its head, could never be the same chicken again. I took him to town still a prisoner, a workman walking behind him with a rope around his waist. He led me through the town to the house of his accomplice. Entering the house he proceeded directly to the bed and from underneath it produced the chicken, wrapped in the cloth of the other thief.