He was working toward some point he intended to make, like one of those pleasant-tongued attorneys flattering a witness before tying him up in a knot, so I was careful to say nothing whatever. King came around the kneeling elephant and joined us, leaning back against the beast and appraising the Mahatma with his eyes half-closed.
"You're dealing with white men," King suggested. "Why don't you talk in terms that we understand?"
It seemed difficult for the Mahatma to descend to that. He half-closed his eyes in turn and frowned, as if hard put to it to simplify his thoughts sufficiently—something like a mathematician trying to explain himself to the kindergarten class.
"I could kill you," he said, looking straight at King.
King nodded.
"You are not the kind of man who should be killed," he went on.
"Did you ever hear the fable of the fox and the sour grapes?" King asked him, and the Mahatma looked annoyed.
"Would you rather be killed?" he retorted.
"'Pon my soul, I'm inclined to leave that to the outcome," King answered. "Death would mean investigation, and investigation discovery of that science you gave us a glimpse of."
"If I was to let you go," the Mahatma began to argue.