It was safer.

Besides, he was paid one case of tobacco per head.

But if he ever got a chance at that white man, if he ever caught him sick or stood at his back when he stumbled and fell on a bush-trail--well, there would be a head that would fetch a price in Malaita.
Sheldon was pleased with what Seelee told him.

The seventh man of the last batch of runaways had been caught and was even then at the gate.

He was brought in, heavy-featured and defiant, his arms bound with cocoanut sennit, the dry blood still on his body from the struggle with his captors.
"Me savvee you good fella, Seelee," Sheldon said, as the chief gulped down a quarter-tumbler of raw trade-gin.