Jack's jaw fell. For a month past he had heard rumors of a native war, but he had resolutely closed his ears to all that Fetuao was so insistent to tell him. It was none of his business, he had said to her uneasily. He wasn't no politician, and all he asked of anybody was to be let alone; and with that he had tried to put the matter by as something imaginary and disquieting, which, if boldly ignored, would disappear of itself.
"Say, Mr. Leicester, what in hell is it about?" he inquired.
"If you went to the bottom of it you would find Dutchmen," said Leicester grimly.
Jack cursed the meddling scoundrels.
"They want Mataafa for king, just because he has a majority of two thousand votes," said Leicester.
"There sounds to be something in that," said Jack faintly.
"Nothing at all!" exclaimed Leicester. "Just speciousness, that's what I call it. The other fellow, Tanumafili, is a nice-appearing boy from the missionary college, and being above wire-pulling and promising everything to everybody, he hasn't any following to speak of. But he's a good, decent Protestant boy, and will make a fine king."
"Oh, ho!" said Jack, beginning to see how the wind lay, "and so the other dodger's a Catholic?"
"A rank, bigoted Catholic," said Leicester hotly. "That's what makes the missionaries so wild against him, and likewise the British and American officials."
"They won't let him be king, then?" asked Jack.