At this Tangaloa laughed for the first time. “And what about thy chickens?” he demanded, “and thy things to eat hung out at night?”
“It can eat all the chickens it likes,” returned Kinross, “and I will feed it daily, also, with salt beef and sardines, if that will make us friends again, your Highness.”
“Cease, Kinilosi; I am thy friend already,” said Tangaloa, extending his hand. “It is forgotten about the dog, and lo, the anger is buried.”
“And the price?” inquired Kinross.
“One cannot buy friendship or barter loving-kindness,” said Tangaloa. “Again I tell thee there is no price. But if thou wouldst care to give me a bottle of kerosene, for the lack of which I am sore distressed these nights—well, I should be very glad.”
“I shall be pleased indeed,” said the trader, who of a sudden assumed an intent, listening attitude.
“What is the matter?” demanded Tangaloa.
“Sh-sh!” exclaimed the white man.
“There is nothing,” said the chief.
“Yes, yes,” said Kinross; “listen, your Highness! A faint, faint bark like that of a spirit dog.”