Among the gifts from Somali Jack’s packet that Harry presented to his majesty was a shirt and a pair of pyjamas. These he wore until they were black, albeit Harry had several times suggested that they should be washed.
A whole month flew by. Very quickly indeed the days went too, for the air made Harry lazy, and he felt as if he had eaten the lotus leaf. He roused himself at last, and, fearful that he might be outstaying his welcome, he told the king he must go.
“Go! did you not come here to stay and talk to me for ever and ever? Go! No, no! Lobo! Lobo!”
It began gradually to dawn upon Harry that he really and virtually was a prisoner in these friendly islands. He certainly could not leave them without his majesty’s permission. To steal a boat and try to escape was out of the question, the amazons with the rolling eyes would effectually prevent this.
So he stayed on quietly another month. Then, firm in the belief that a constant drop will wear away a stone, he began persistently to tease the king into letting him go on his journey.
The king would promise one day, and retract the next.
Three months passed away, then four. Harry was getting desperate. At the risk of giving mortal offence he refused to tell any more stories. And his majesty got so sad and morose that he felt grieved to see him.
“I will let you go,” he said at length, “if you will promise to return and bring me more gifts.”
Harry gladly promised that he would do everything in his power to come back that way.
The king had most minutely examined the rifles, but hitherto not a shot had been fired. Ammunition was far too valuable.