But Stransom made him sit down, and gave him a stiff glass of whisky. Hand in hand with Willie, Peggy herself came in, all smiles. Stransom introduced them.
“Two babies,” he said, “just three days old.”
Johnnie entered next.
“Born four days ago,” said Stransom, coolly.
“How do, old block? Delighted, I’m sure!”
The king took Johnnie’s extended hand, but holloed with pain immediately after, for the athletic boy had given him what he called an artistic squeeze. It was artistic enough, anyhow, to make the blood ooze from under his nails. No wonder he holloed.
Meanwhile Fitzroy entertained the men in the canoe. They ate like ogres of the good things handed down to them—a bushel of biscuits and about fifteen pounds of salt beef. Fitzroy could see them, their stomachs swelling even in the moonlight. Then he threw them down beads, and coloured cloth.
They fought over this till they nearly capsized the great war-canoe. But the fittest survived: the rest were hors de combat between the thwarts.
The king had more whisky!
He grew happy and fought all his battles over again, and told of all the wondrous cannibal feasts he had taken part in. He even volunteered a song, though he had no more music in him than a carrion crow.