“Are they good to eat?” asked the Boolooroo.

“Try it and see,” answered Trot, biting into an apple herself.

The Blueskin sat down on the end of their bench, next to Button-Bright, and began to eat his apple.  He seemed to like it, for he finished it in a hurry, and when it was gone he picked up the Magic Umbrella.

“Let that alone!” said Button-Bright, making a grab for it.  But the Boolooroo jerked it away in an instant, and standing up he held the umbrella behind him and laughed aloud.

“Now then,” said he, “you can’t get away until I’m willing to let you go.  You are my prisoners.”

“I guess not,” returned Cap’n Bill, and reaching out one of his long arms, the sailorman suddenly grasped the Boolooroo around his long, thin neck and shook him until his whole body fluttered like a flag.  “Drop that umbrel.  Drop it!” yelled Cap’n Bill, and the Boolooroo quickly obeyed.  The Magic Umbrella fell to the ground, and Button-Bright promptly seized it.  Then the sailor let go his hold and the King staggered to a seat, choking and coughing to get his breath back.

“I told you to let things alone,” growled Cap’n Bill.  “If you don’t behave, your Majesty, this Blue Island’ll have to get another Boolooroo.”

“Why?” asked the Blueskin.

“Because I’ll prob’ly spoil you for a king, an’ mebbe for anything else.  Anyhow, you’ll get badly damaged if you try to interfere with us, an’ that’s a fact.”

“Don’t kill him, Cap’n Bill,” said Trot cheerfully.

“Kill me?  Why, he couldn’t do that,” observed the King, who was trying to rearrange the ruffle around his neck.  “Nothing can kill me.”

“Why not?” asked Cap’n Bill.

“Because I haven’t lived my six hundred years yet.  Perhaps you don’t know that every Blueskin in Sky Island lives exactly six hundred years from the time he is born.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” admitted the sailor.

“It’s a fact, said the King.  “Nothing can kill us until we’ve lived to the last day of our appointed lives.  When the final minute is up, we die; but we’re obliged to live all of the six hundred years whether we want to or not.  So you needn’t think of trying to kill anybody on Sky Island.  It can’t be done.”

“Never mind,” said Cap’n Bill.  “I’m no murderer, thank goodness, and I wouldn’t kill you if I could, much as you deserve it.”

“But isn’t six hundred years an awful long time to live?” questioned Trot.

“It seems like it at first,” replied the King, “but I notice that whenever any of my subjects get near the end of their six hundred, they grow nervous and say the life is altogether too short.”

“How long have you lived?” asked Button-Bright.

The King coughed again and turned a bit bluer.  “That is considered an impertinent question in Sky Island,” he answered, “but I will say that every Boolooroo is elected to reign three hundred years, and I’ve reigned not quite—­ahem!—­two hundred.”