“Too old fella me,” Koho answered, with a weary shake of the head. “Me no like 'm Mary. Me no like 'm kai-kai (food). Close up me die along altogether.” He stole a significant glance at Worth, whose head was tilted back to a long glass. “Me like 'm rum.”
Grief shook his head.
“Tambo along black fella.”
“He black fella no tambo,” Koho retorted, nodding toward the groaning labourer.
“He fella sick,” Grief explained.
“Me fella sick.”
“You fella big liar,” Grief laughed. “Rum tambo, all the time tambo. Now, Koho, we have big fella talk along this big fella mar-ster.”
And he and Wallenstein and the old chief sat down on the veranda to confer about affairs of state. Koho was complimented on the peace he had kept, and he, with many protestations of his aged decrepitude, swore peace again and everlasting. Then was discussed the matter of starting a German plantation twenty miles down the coast. The land, of course, was to be bought from Koho, and the price was arranged in terms of tobacco, knives, beads, pipes, hatchets, porpoise teeth and shell-money—in terms of everything except rum. While the talk went on, Koho, glancing through the window, could see Worth mixing medicines and placing bottles back in the medicine cupboard. Also, he saw the manager complete his labours by taking a drink of Scotch. Koho noted the bottle carefully. And, though he hung about for an hour after the conference was over, there was never a moment when some one or another was not in the room. When Grief and Worth sat down to a business talk, Koho gave it up.
“Me go along schooner,” he announced, then turned and limped out.
“How are the mighty fallen,” Grief laughed. “To think that used to be Koho, the fiercest red-handed murderer in the Solomons, who defied all his life two of the greatest world powers. And now he's going aboard to try and cadge Denby for a drink.”