Suddenly a cry of alarm was raised, and one of the young natives slid quickly down the tree and dodged off into the bush. Phil and his friends had just reached the house when they heard a hoarse cry of anger, followed by a loud report as of a pistol discharge. Phil hurriedly moved until he could see between trees that the other native was standing at the foot of the tree into which he had climbed, and that Klinger was beating him with his slave whip. The native was silent, stoically accepting the punishment from the white man, while yet in his hands were several green cocoanuts he had just gathered.
“Who is the native boy?” Phil asked of Avao. He saw her lips were trembling.
“My cousin,” she said.
Phil, acting upon a strong impulse to protect the native, who had been acting in his own service, turned and rapidly approached the brutal scene.
“Mr. Klinger,” he exclaimed tensely, “you will please stop whipping that native at once. It’s outrageous. What has he done to deserve such punishment?”
With his whip hovering over the bruised back of the native, Klinger gazed angrily at the intruder.
“This is my method of punishing these rebels who steal my fruit,” he replied, and then the cruel whip again fell upon the native’s quivering back.
“Stop it, I say!” Phil cried determinedly. “I shan’t stand idly by and see you maltreat that poor fellow. He was gathering his own fruit for us to eat. You are the one who is stealing other people’s fruit, and what’s more,” and Phil’s voice rose high in indignation, “if you don’t get off of this place and take your slaves with you, I’ll whip you with your own rawhide.”
“YOU ARE SIMPLY A BULLY”