“Oh, and you is handsome too. I should like to be dressed just like you, and fight plenty everywhere.”
. . . . . .
The king himself was a perfect Saul as to height and strength; handsome in face rather than otherwise, and almost white.
He met the little party in the tent, all smiles and strange ejaculations.
He took Antonio’s hand, bent down, and spat in it, a compliment common in these islands.
Barclay hoped he wouldn’t spit in his. But the daring wee Teenie took the king to book at once.
“Oh, you nasty big king,” she cried, “what for you spit in po’ ’Tonic’s hand.”
The king heard not, but led the captain away into the darkness of the great tent, and seated him on a couch or daïs covered with mats of grass cloth, and with pillows stuffed with a species of soft grass.
The rest followed, and seated themselves as best they could.
Then slaves entered with trays of delightful fruit, and trays with red glasses, and bottles containing Indian sherbet.