“The only thing that worried me,” continued Moit, “was the fact that our being white would arouse the enmity of the San Blas, in spite of the wonders we can show them. But if Nux and Bryonia pose as the masters, and we are merely their slaves to run and care for their magic travelling machine, then we need have no special fear.”
“Magic travellin’ machine is good!” cried my uncle. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Mr. Moit, as sure as fate!”
The inventor smiled, as if pleased with the compliment.
“If I can get a share of those diamonds,” said he, “I will be independent of my rich uncle in Los Angeles, and will have the means to secure my patents, erect my own factory, and manufacture the machines myself. It is something to work for, is it not?”
I had been carefully examining the proposition, and now said:
“There seems to be a serious flaw in your arrangement, Uncle.”
“What’s that, Sam?”
“It isn’t reasonable that four white men should be slaves to two black ones. Such a combination would excite the suspicions of the Indians at once, if they are really as clever as they are reported to be. Take your own case, for example, Uncle Naboth. You couldn’t look like a slave for a single minute.”
Indeed, Mr. Perkins’ stout little body, his cheery face and shrewd eyes, and the general air of prosperity and contentment that radiated from his benign personality, were a clear refutation of any suggestion of slavery or even dependence. Even Ned smiled at the idea, and Duncan Moit shook his head with a sigh.
“Mr. Perkins can’t go,” he said.