But, and it is a big “but,” had King ’Ngaloo only known that at the very time Mahmoud was in his camp or village, his “brother” Suliemon was in that of the rival potentate, and that he had sold him the unfortunate men of the Bunting, Mahmoud would not have been allowed to depart, unless he could have done so without his head. For both Mahmoud and his “brother” were excellent business men, and were not at all averse to playing into each other’s hands.
Before Mahmoud had left the town of this African potentate he was allowed to choose his slaves. He chose, to begin with, a day on which King Kara-Kara had imbibed even more rum than usual. Indeed, he was so absurdly tipsy that he could not hold the tongs.
He was determined to see that he was not cheated for all that, and so, supported on one side by his prime minister, and on the other by one of his priests, the chief executioner, sword in hand, coming up behind, he waddled out to the great square in which the poor unhappy souls, men and women, from whom Mahmoud was to make his choice were drawn up.
The first thing the king did after getting outside was to give vent to an uncontrollable fit of laughing. Nobody knew what he was laughing at, nor, I dare say, did he himself. But he suddenly grew serious, hit his prime minister on the face with his open palm, and asked why he dared laugh in his august presence.
Though his nose bled a little, the minister said nothing; he was used to all the king’s little eccentricities, and this was one of them.
After he had got into the square, the king desired to be informed what the meeting was all about.
“Execution, isn’t it?” That is what he said in his own language.
“That fellow Mahmoud’s white head is coming off, isn’t it? Turban and all? Turban and all, ha! ha! ha! I told him I would do it. And I will.”
No wonder Mahmoud had trembled in his sandals.
But King ’Ngaloo was soon put right.