"Canak-ti-ma-na" (I don't know), said Johnny seating himself on the table and allowing his glance to sweep the place from corner to corner. "I don't know," he repeated, slowly. "How are you all anyway?"
"Ti-ma-na" (Not so bad), answered the spokesman.
Johnny was enjoying himself. He was exactly in the position of some good motherly soul who held a pumpkin pie before the eyes of several hungry boys. The only difference was that the pie Johnny was thinking of was raw, so exceeding raw that it would turn these natives into wild men. So Johnny decided that, like as not, he wouldn't let them have it at all.
Johnny enjoyed the situation nevertheless. He was mighty unpopular at that moment, he knew, but his unpopularity now was nothing to what it would be in a very short time. Thinking of this, he measured the distance to the door very carefully with his eye.
At last, when it became evident that if he didn't move someone else would, he turned to the still manager and said:
"Well, guess I'll be going. Got a match?"
He produced the borrowed cigaret. A sigh of hope escaped from the group of natives and a match was thrust upon him.
"Thanks."
The match was of the sulphur kind, the sort that never blow out.
Nonchalantly Johnny lighted the cigaret, then, all too carelessly, he flipped the match. Though it seemed a careless act, it was deftly done.