The thumping of wooden pestles husking the evening rice stopped for a moment and Babalatchi's name rang afresh shrilly on women's lips in various keys.

A voice far off shouted something--another, nearer, repeated it; there was a short hubbub which died out with extreme suddenness.

The first crier turned to Lakamba, saying indolently-- "He is with the blind Omar." Lakamba's lips moved inaudibly.

The man who had just spoken was again deeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet; and the chief--as if he had forgotten all about it already--sat with a stolid face amongst his silent followers, leaning back squarely in his chair, his hands on the arms of his seat, his knees apart, his big blood-shot eyes blinking solemnly, as if dazzled by the noble vacuity of his thoughts.
Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon.

The delicate manipulation of the ancient pirate's susceptibilities, the skilful management of Aissa's violent impulses engrossed him to the exclusion of every other business--interfered with his regular attendance upon his chief and protector--even disturbed his sleep for the last three nights.
That day when he left his own bamboo hut--which stood amongst others in Lakamba's campong--his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt as to the success of his intrigue.