"That all right?" he asked Oom Sam.
Oom Sam bowed to the ground.
"Him want to know," he said, jerking his head towards Captain
Francis, "whether you know what means?"
His forefinger wandered aimlessly down the document. His Majesty's
reply was prompt and cheerful.
"Three barrels of rum a year."
Sam explained further. "There will be white men come digging," he
said; "white men with engines that blow, making holes under the
ground and cutting trees."
The King was interested. "Where?" he asked.
Oom Sam pointed westward through the bush.
"Down by creek-side."
The King was thoughtful "Rum come all right?" he asked.
Oom Sam pointed to the papers.
"Say so there," he declared. "All quite plain."
The King grinned. It was not regal, but he certainly did it. If
white men come too near they must be shot - carefully and from
ambush. He leaned back with the air of desiring the conference to
cease. Oom Sam turned to Captain Francis.
"King him quite satisfied," he declared. "Him all explained before
- he agree."
The King suddenly woke up again. He clutched Sam by the arm, and
whispered in his ear. This time it was Sam who grinned.
"King, him say him signed paper twice," he explained. "Him want
four barrels of rum now.
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