“That dog!” repeated the chief, with counterfeit surprise.
“Thy dog, the one I shot near my house,” said Kinross, firing up with the memory of its misdeeds, “the dog that chased my chickens, and ate my eggs, and plagued me all night like a forest devil—I want to take counsel with your Highness about it.”
“But it is dead,” said Tangaloa.
“But thy high-chief anger is not dead,” said Kinross. “Behold, I used to be like your son, and the day was no longer than thy love for me. I am overcome with sorrow to remember the years that are gone, and now to live together as we do in enmity. What is the value of thy dog, that I may pay thee for it, and what present can I make besides that will turn thy heart towards me again?”
“Cease,” said the chief; “there was no worth to the dog, and I have no anger against thee, Kinilosi.”
“You mock at me, Tangaloa,” said Kinross. “There is anger in thine eyes even as thou speakest to me.”
“Great was my love for that dog,” said the chief. “It licked my face when I lay wounded on the battle-ground. If I whistled it came to me, so wise was it and loving; and if I were sick it would not eat.”
“Weighty is my shame and pain,” said the trader. “Would that I had never lifted my gun against it! But I will pay thee its worth and make thee a present besides.”
“Impossible,” said Tangaloa. “When the cocoanut is split, who can make it whole?”
“One can always get a new cocoanut,” said Kinross. “I will buy thee the best dog in Apia, a high chief of a dog, clever like a consul, and with a bark melodious as a musical box.”