"Chief," he said, with that air of bland innocence which would have made men used to his ways shake in their tracks, "I observe that all men say one thing to me—that they are poor. Now this is not the truth."
"I am in your hands," said the chief diplomatically; "also my people, and they will pay taxation though they starve."
Sanders saw things in a new light.
"It seems," he said, addressing the serried ranks of people who squatted about, "that there is discontent in your stomachs because I ask you for your taxes. We will have a palaver on this."
He sat down, and a grey old headman, a notorious litigant and a league-long speaker, rose up.
"Lord," he said dramatically, "justice!"
"Kwai!" cried the people in chorus.
The murmur, deep-chested and unanimous, made a low, rumbling sound like the roll of a drum.
"Justice!" said the headman. "For you, Sandi, are very cruel and harsh. You take and take and give us nothing, and the people cry out in pain."
He paused, and Sanders nodded.