The young man sat down on a bundle of freshly cut grass, placed the box by his side, placed his chin on his hands, his elbows on his knees, and sat for some moments regarding the boys with an amused smile on his rather weak face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"We're doin' acrobatic stunts on a high wire just now," scorned Jimmie.
"Don't get gay, now," the other growled. "I'm the son of a United States senator."
"I'm the sister of the sun an' moon," Jimmie replied. "So don't be givin' me no guff."
"You're a cheeky little baggage," the son of the senator replied, rising to his feet.
"You might leave that box here," Jimmie called out, "if it's got anythin' to eat in it. We could eat a crocodile."
"Be careful that the crocodiles don't eat you," warned the other and, seizing the box in a firmer grasp, walked out of the tent.
"What do you make of it?" asked Jack.
"The son of a senator," Jimmie replied, "is here representin' some big interest, an' that's the treaty box he's got. Say, if they ever get all these native kings an' queens an' prime ministers to goin', there'll be bloody war in the Philippines, an' Japan, or China, or Germany, or France will butt in, an' there'll be a fine time."