I interrupt this fine flow of sentiment by asking him what he wants in exchange for his thatch. He thinks he will take a little salt. I measure out with a spoon the exact amount—which he knew before he left his town. The dramatic moment is when I put away the spoon. He glances from the salt to myself several times with a fine simulation of disappointment and contempt, calculated to reduce me to pulp. He is no child in his art, but such an adept that my moral fortitude almost surrenders before that look. I seek to relieve the strain by saying with affected carelessness: “That’s all. Take your salt and get out.” The reply to this delicate suggestion is a prolonged yell of many mingled emotions: and then he grabs,—not the salt, but his thatch and starts down the hill cursing the white man. I have not so much affronted his judgment as I have wounded his feelings, and perhaps have put a stumbling-block in the way of his salvation. He thinks better of it, however, and comes back, takes the salt and goes away blessing me. It was hard to procure eggs. The natives do not eat eggs but always set them. At first they asked the price of a chicken for an egg, because, they said, the egg would become a chicken, with proper treatment. The time element is always eliminated in every consideration. But most of the eggs that they brought us would never have become chickens under any circumstances; and this they knew, for they had given them a thorough trial. When I pronounce an egg to be bad a man always wants it back; for he or his friend will try to sell it to me again, watching an opportunity when I am very busy and have not time to examine it closely. I have probably refused the same egg half a dozen times in one morning, and then perhaps have bought it, and the successful vender has amused the people of his town by relating the transaction at my expense.