“When I started down the slope, black men seemed to spring up from every few yards of the little palms that grew on the edge of the elevation. I counted thirty of them and stopped. The fat secretary-of-war was following me. As I got nearer, I saw something in the things hanging from the totem-like trunks that set me to thinking—”
“What was it?” asked the boy, breathlessly.
“Well,” answered the Englishman, “you’ve heard the worst about Timbado. I guess it’s true.”
The boy drew back in horror.
“And you kept on?” he asked, breathing hard.
“There were a good many more than I thought there’d be,” went on Captain Bassett, “but I’d served in the English army, part of the time in Afghanistan, and I thought I might as well. When I got to the open gate, I saw that the stockade surrounded the real town. It seemed the dormitory for women and children. I thought for a minute I’d seen enough and that my men might be getting anxious,” went on the old soldier, sucking at his pipe, “but I didn’t have much choice. The thirty or more full-grown men I had counted came crowding up behind, so I went in.
“All this time there wasn’t a word said. Before I could make any explanation, the king appeared—old Cajou walked out of one of the huts, as thin and straight and gray as I first saw him. He had on a blue coat with brass buttons, a navigating officer’s cap marked ‘First Mate’ in gold letters, and he carried a gold-headed cane. His pink shell necklace was there, too, hanging on his breast.
“The old man held out his hand, but my eyesight was poor.
“‘Good morning,’ I began. ‘I’ve come for my pink pearl.’