"The luxury," exclaims B.-P., "of fining a real, live king to the extent of one shilling." The king goes away for five minutes, and then returns with the intelligence that if the white chief will provide his men with some salt to eat with their "chop" (food) he really thinks they will be able to march that day.

B.-P.

expresses a feverish desire to oblige His Majesty, and proceeds with great alacrity to cut a beautifully lithe and whippy cane.

In an instant that tribe is marching forward with their commissariat loads upon their heads.

But there are others still to be dealt with.