“Is it not?” said the other with a sceptical smile. “They are stronger than we are and they want tribute from us. And sometimes they get it—even from Wajo where every man is free and wears a kris.”
There was a period of dead silence while Lingard looked thoughtful and the Malays gazed stonily at nothing.
“But we burn our powder amongst ourselves,” went on Hassim, gently, “and blunt our weapons upon one another.”
He sighed, paused, and then changing to an easy tone began to urge Lingard to visit Wajo “for trade and to see friends,” he said, laying his hand on his breast and inclining his body slightly.
“Aye. To trade with friends,” cried Lingard with a laugh, “for such a ship”—he waved his arm—“for such a vessel as this is like a household where there are many behind the curtain. It is as costly as a wife and children.”
The guests rose and took their leave.
“You fired three shots for me, Panglima Hassim,” said Lingard, seriously, “and I have had three barrels of powder put on board your prau; one for each shot. But we are not quits.”
The Malay's eyes glittered with pleasure.
“This is indeed a friend's gift. Come to see me in my country!”
“I promise,” said Lingard, “to see you—some day.”