Well, what have you got ’em all in here for?
Yes, that’s just it. I hate interfering with them, but, well, I simply had to. You see there’s two sorts of idols here; they offer fruit and rats to some of them; they lay them on their hands or their laps.
Why do they offer them rats?
O, I don’t know. They don’t know either. It’s the right thing to do out here, it’s been the right thing for hundreds of years; nobody exactly knows why. It’s like the bows we have on evening shoes, or anything else. But it’s all right.
Well, what are you putting them in heaps for?
Because there’s the other kind, the ones with wide mouths and rust round them.
Rust? Yes, so there is. What do they do?
They offer blood to them, Archie. They pour it down their throats. Sometimes they kill people, sometimes they only bleed them. It depends how much blood the idol wants.
How much blood it wants? Good Lord!
How do they know?
The priests tell them. Sometimes they fill them up to their necks—they’re all hollow, you know. In spring it’s awful.
Why are they worse in spring?
I don’t know. The priests ask for more blood then. Much more. They say it always was so.
And you’re stopping it?
Yes, I’m stopping these. One must. I’m letting them worship those. Of course, it’s idolatry and all that kind of thing, but I don’t like interfering short of actual murder.
And they’re obeying you?
’M, y-yes. I think so.
You must have got a great hold over them.
Well, I don’t know about that. It’s the pass that counts.