Beelo one day brought a large parcel. He was particularly happy, and as full of play as a kitten.
“You can’t guess what I have for you,” he said with a mischievous look.
“No, Beelo—what?”
“You’ll see.” He was opening the parcel. “You and Christopher are going to be Senatras.” Senatra was the name of the inhabitants.
He produced from the parcel two native costumes. In addition were a basin and some brown powder. The boy was in glee as he separated the articles into one array for Christopher and the other for me.
He ran to a little stream, fetched water in the basin, and with a comical seriousness dissolved part of the powder.
“Your arm, Christopher,” he demanded. At times Beelo’s manner had a touch of imperiousness that sat oddly with his youth.
Christopher obediently bared his powerful arm.
“Oh!” said Beelo in delight. “You have splendid muscles,—they are like iron; and you are very strong,—that’s good.” His finger was timid as it touched Christopher’s arm.
He dipped a cloth in the colored water, and rubbed the stain on Christopher’s white skin. His care and gravity in comparing the tint with the color of his own wrist, in shaking his head, in adding more pigment to the water and trying again, and at last his delighted satisfaction, were all very charming.