“Have I got to tell him he’s a little three-penny King?” said Stedman, plaintively.
“No; you needn’t give a literal translation; it can be as free as you please.”
“Thanks,” said the secretary, humbly.
“And tell him,” continued Gordon, “that we will give presents to him and his warriors if he keeps away from Ollypybus, and agrees to keep away always. If he won’t do that, try to get him to agree to stay away for three months at least, and by that time we can get word to San Francisco, and have a dozen muskets over here in two months; and when our time of probation is up, and he and his merry men come dancing down the hillside, we will blow them up as high as his mountains. But you needn’t tell him that, either. And if he is proud and haughty, and would rather fight, ask him to restrain himself until we show what we can do with our weapons at two hundred yards.”
Stedman seated himself in the long grass in front of the King, and with many revolving gestures of his arms, and much pointing at Gordon, and profound nods and bows, retold what Gordon had dictated. When he had finished, the King looked at the bundle of presents, and at the guns, of which Stedman had given a very wonderful account, but answered nothing.
“I guess,” said Stedman, with a sigh, “that we will have to give him a little practical demonstration to help matters. I am sorry, but I think one of those goats has got to die. It’s like vivisection. The lower order of animals have to suffer for the good of the higher.”
“Oh,” said Bradley, Jr., cheerfully, “I’d just as soon shoot one of those niggers as one of the goats.”
So Stedman bade the King tell his men to drive a goat towards them, and the King did so, and one of the men struck one of the goats with his spear, and it ran clumsily across the plain.
“Take your time, Bradley,” said Gordon. “Aim low, and if you hit it, you can have it for supper.”
“And if you miss it,” said Stedman, gloomily, “Messenwah may have us for supper.”