Slowly Lakamba took the box, opened it, and tearing off a piece of green leaf deposited in it a pinch of lime, a morsel of gambier, a small bit of areca nut, and wrapped up the whole with a dexterous twist.

He paused, morsel in hand, seemed to miss something, turned his head from side to side, slowly, like a man with a stiff neck, and ejaculated in an ill-humoured bass-- "Babalatchi!" The players glanced up quickly, and looked down again directly.

Those men who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the sound of the chief's voice.

The one nearest to Lakamba repeated the call, after a while, over the rail into the courtyard.

There was a movement of upturned faces below by the fires, and the cry trailed over the enclosure in sing-song tones.