trembling, moved to his side.
“What they want?” the King asked.
Oom Sam spread out the document which Trent had handed him upon a tree-stump, and explained. His Majesty nodded more affably. The document reminded him of the pleasant fact that there were three casks of rum to come to him every year. Besides, he rather liked scratching his royal mark upon the smooth, white paper. He was quite willing to repeat the performance, and took up the pen which Sam handed him readily.
“Him white man just come,” Oom Sam explained; “want see you do this.”
His Majesty was flattered, and, with the air of one to whom the signing of treaties and concessions is an everyday affair, affixed a thick, black cross upon the spot indicated.
“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.
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