Bob was an impatient, persistent sort of a fellow. Having made up his mind to leave his hiding-place, he promptly succeeded in getting out of the bowl and down onto the ground.
"I'm safe in this outlandish garment Pat gave me," reasoned Bob, securing his belongings under its folds. "I'm going to join the procession and see what is going on."
Bob pressed on the outskirts of the howling, excited mob that surrounded the palace. Then he edged his way in among them.
He found out that the robe he wore was indeed "taboo." People made way for him. Thus proceeding, Bob got finally right up to the little pagoda that Stoodles had designated to him as the royal council room.
Its entrance was choked and crowded with natives trying to enter.
Bob kept working his way farther and farther along. At last he squeezed past two great greasy sentinels and saw Pat Stoodles.
The Milesian sat on a heap of skins next to a throne raised on a daïs. Upon the throne itself sat a dusky native. Bob decided, from his manner and the deference with which he was treated by the others, that he must be the king.
All around were savages, more or less decorated in a way not common with the simple natives.
These persons, Bob knew, must comprise the nobility and the high-priests of the tribe.
Stoodles was speaking volubly, and seemed to take his honors and the situation in an easy, familiar way.