Notwithstanding his dominant personality and the remarkable capacity he had for real leadership, Percival was a simple, sensitive soul. He writhed under the lash of conspicuous adulation, and there was a good deal of it going on.
The satiric Randolph Fitts, notwithstanding his unquestioned admiration for the younger man, took an active delight in denouncing what he was prone to allude to as Percival's political aspirations. It is only fair to state that Fitts confined his observations to a very small coterie of friends, chief among whom was the subject himself.
“You are the smartest politician I've ever encountered, and that's saying a good deal,” he remarked one evening as he sat smoking with a half dozen companions in front of one of the completed huts. They were ranged in a row, like so many birds, their tired backs against the “facade” of the cabin, their legs stretched out in front of them. “You're too deep for me. I don't see just what your game is, A. A. If there was a chance to graft, I'd say that was it, but you could graft here for centuries and have nothing to show for it but fresh air. Even if you were to run for the office of king, or sultan or shah, you wouldn't get anything but votes,—and you'd get about all of 'em, I'll say that for you. To a man, the women would vote for you,—especially if you were to run for sultan. What is your game?”
Percival smoked in silence, his gaze fixed on the moonlit line of trees across the field.
“And speaking of women, that reminds me,” went on Fitts. “When does my lord and master intend to transplant our crop of ladies?”
“What's that, Fitts?” said Percival, called out of his dream.
“Ladies,—what about 'em? When do they come ashore to occupy the mansions we have prepared for them?”
“Captain Trigger suggests next week.”
“What's he got to do with it? Ain't you king?”
“He's got a lot to do with it, you blithering boob.”