"This is no /mwavi/, O Babemba," said Jerry. "It is the divine liquor
that makes the white lords shoot straight with their wonderful guns
which kill at a thousand paces. See, I will swallow some of it," and
he did, though it must have burnt his tongue.
Thus encouraged, old Babemba sniffed at the coffee and found it
fragrant. Then he called a man, who from his peculiar dress I took to
be a doctor, made him drink some, and watched the results, which were
that the doctor tried to finish the pannikin. Snatching it away
indignantly Babemba drank himself, and as I had half-filled the cup
with sugar, found the mixture good.
"It is indeed a holy drink," he said, smacking his lips. "Have you any
more of it?"
"The white lords have more," said Jerry. "They invite you to eat with
them."
Babemba stuck his finger into the tin, and covering it with the
sediment of sugar, sucked and reflected.
"It's all right," I whispered to Stephen. "I don't think he'll kill us
after drinking our coffee, and what's more, I believe he is coming to
breakfast.
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