“I began to think it was something of that kind,” said Trim.
“Tell him that I fear no trouble, and that I shall go on whether he gives permission or not.”
When this had been translated the elder looked solemnly at Trim for a moment, and then held out his hand.
“Third time never fails,” remarked Dobbin, who was watching the scene from the shelter of the tent.
Trim was not yet satisfied, however. He knew that three handshakes from this tribe was not enough to be a promise of friendship.
“Tell him I’d like to look at his army,” he said.
This was translated and the elder promptly turned toward the big crowd of blacks and beckoned to Trim to go with him.
Trim promptly followed, and Dobbin fearing that his young friend was about to be led into a trap got up from the tent and ran after.
The interpreter went along also, and Trim made a number of complimentary remarks about the appearance of the soldiers.
“I believe,” he thought, as he looked the crowd over, “that half a dozen pistol shots would scatter this gang, but what good would that do if one of their poisoned arrows should happen to scratch my skin?