Charles Beadle

“ Warren-Dukely wheeled upon him swiftly and, pointing his cigar at him, cried:
"But you —— fool. I've told you you're trapped for the next husband."
"Husband!" repeated the little doctor bewilderedly.
"Yes, yes."
"But what—what happens to you?"
"Me? I'm sacrificed to this confounded ju-ju. Are you blind? The night of the marriage orgy they carve me up, wipe out your camp and stick you here to make magic for twelve moons."
"My God!" ejaculated the little doctor, half rising to his feet. ”

“ The start was convulsive. He stared at the doctor; then the eyes smiled. "Oh, I beg your pardon. One gets to dreaming—more or less. Er—what the mischief was I gassing about?"
"You were going to tell me how you became King of the Wood."
"King of the Wood? Did I say that—really? This cigar seems awful strong, by the way. Still, years since I smoked one."
Suddenly he sprang to his feet and, bending over the doctor's chair, touched his bare hand as he picked up the calabash. ”

“ H'm."
"Have a cigar?" added the doctor.
"Good Lord!" Heartiness was creeping in to the voice. "That's awfully good of you! No, don't bother for a match." He bent forward, picked a firebrand with delicate fingers and sighed at the first puff. He sat back seemingly absorbed in the joy of the inhalation. The doctor began to note details: that the shirt was soft and yellow, frayed; the parched skin drawn tightly over an aquiline nose, and the care bestowed on the hands; even the beard had been trimmed.
"Yes," began Warren-Dukely reflectively. "I'm the King of the Wood." ”