"Maybe plenty bad fella boy kai-kai along you." Although Van Horn did not know it, at this challenge he experienced the hair-pricking sensations in his scalp that Jerry experienced when he bristled his back.
"Hey, Borckman," he called.

"Man the whaleboat." When the whaleboat was alongside, he descended into it first, superiorly, then invited Nau-hau to accompany him.
"My word, King o' Babylon," he muttered in the chief's ears as the boat's crew bent to the oars, "one fella boy make 'm trouble, I shoot 'm hell outa you first thing.

Next thing I shoot 'm hell outa Langa-Langa.

All the time you me fella walk about, you walk about along me.

You no like walk about along me, you finish close up altogether." And ashore, a white man alone, attended by an Irish terrier puppy with a heart flooded with love and by a black king resentfully respectful of the dynamite of the white man, Van Horn went, swashbuckling barelegged through a stronghold of three thousand souls, while his white mate, addicted to schnapps, held the deck of the tiny craft at anchor off shore, and while his black boat's crew, oars in hands, held the whaleboat stern-on to the beach to receive the expected flying leap of the man they served but did not love, and whose head they would eagerly take any time were it not for fear of him.
Van Horn had had no intention of going ashore, and that he went ashore at the black chief's insolent challenge was merely a matter of business.