Bositi was unreasonable about it. On being told that he was supposed to be dead, he insulted the headman and beat the woman who was once his wife. When her husband protested, he beat him too.
After he had thus relieved his feelings he opened his box, and took from it many strings of pink and white beads; these he gave to the mothers of the pretty marriageable girls of the village. In return he received much strong beer. The beer made him drunk—too drunk to beat or insult anyone else, but not too drunk to grasp securely in a moist hand the key of his precious box.
Next morning he made his peace with the headman by giving him a hat, but he rudely rebuffed his late wife, whose cupidity was excited by the size of that blue-and-yellow tin box.
He also made friends with the men of the village—not excluding him who had married his wife—by distributing pieces of strong twist tobacco.
After a few days' rest he made certain selections from the treasure in his box and set out for the Chief's village. When there he showed off. He wore his best clothes, and spoke bad English fluently and loudly in the traders' stores. While his money lasted the traders suffered him; when it was spent he was told not to come again.
The Chief soon heard of him and sent for him.
Bositi had never been presented at Court before. He was immensely impressed. He squatted in the sand, one of a long row of strangers to the capital, with his gifts neatly folded before him. Immediately in front of him was a long thatched building. Three sides of it were closed in with reed mats, the fourth was open to the public. This, a lounger told him, was the National Council House, or Khotla.
The Chief had not yet arrived, but his orchestra was playing idly. It consisted of three gigantic harmonicas and a number of drums. The instrumentalists showed their utter contempt of all common people by talking loudly as they strummed and thumped.
The Court Fool was aping birds. He had a bunch of feathers in his hair and a few stuck in his waist-belt behind; this was the extent of his make-up. For the moment he was imitating a crested crane. The bird is beautiful, the Fool was hideous; yet such was his art of mimicry that all recognised the bird he had chosen to represent.
The Town Crier paused for a moment to bawl something unintelligibly, and then passed on his way.