For eight months in our year he had little choice but to dine with Tinman or be a hermit attached to a telescope.
"Where are you going, Lieutenant ?" His frank reply to the question was, "I am going to be killed;" and it grew notorious that this meant Tinman's table.

We get on together as well as we can.

Perhaps if we were an acutely calculating people we should find it preferable both for trade and our physical prosperity to turn and kill Tinman, in contempt of consequences.

But we are not, and so he does the business gradually for us.

A generous people we must be, for Tinman was not detested.