“Yes,” said Captain Travis, bitterly, as he lifted his rheumatic leg over the boat; “that’s why we came.”

Mr. Stedman did not notice this.  He was too much pleased to be anything but hospitable.  “You are soaking wet, aren’t you?” he said; “and hungry, I guess.  You come right over to the consul’s office and get on some other things.”

He turned to the natives and gave some rapid orders in their language, and some of them jumped into the boat at this, and began to lift out the trunks, and others ran off towards a large, stout old native, who was sitting gravely on a log, smoking, with the rain beating unnoticed on his gray hair.

“They’ve gone to tell the King,” said Stedman; “but you’d better get something to eat first, and then I’ll be happy to present you properly.”

“The King,” said Captain Travis, with some awe; “is there a king?”

“I never saw a king,” Gordon remarked, “and I’m sure I never expected to see one sitting on a log in the rain.”

“He’s a very good king,” said Stedman, confidentially; “and though you mightn’t think it to look at him, he’s a terrible stickler for etiquette and form.  After supper he’ll give you an audience; and if you have any tobacco, you had better give him some as a present, and you’d better say it’s from the President:  he doesn’t like to take presents from common people, he’s so proud.  The only reason he borrows mine is because he thinks I’m the President’s son.”

“What makes him think that?” demanded the consul, with some shortness.  Young Mr. Stedman looked nervously at the consul and at Albert, and said that he guessed some one must have told him.

The consul’s office was divided into four rooms with an open court in the middle, filled with palms, and watered somewhat unnecessarily by a fountain.

“I made that,” said Stedman, in a modest off-hand way.  “I made it out of hollow bamboo reeds connected with a spring.  And now I’m making one for the King.  He saw this and had a lot of bamboo sticks put up all over the town, without any underground connections, and couldn’t make out why the water wouldn’t spurt out of them.  And because mine spurts, he thinks I’m a magician.”

“I suppose,” grumbled the consul, “some one told him that too.”

“I suppose so,” said Mr. Stedman, uneasily.

There was a veranda around the consul’s office, and inside the walls were hung with skins, and pictures from illustrated papers, and there was a good deal of bamboo furniture, and four broad, cool-looking beds.  The place was as clean as a kitchen.  “I made the furniture,” said Stedman, “and the Bradleys keep the place in order.”

“Who are the Bradleys?” asked Albert.

“The Bradleys are those two men you saw with me,” said Stedman; “they deserted from a British man-of-war that stopped here for coal, and they act as my servants.  One is Bradley, Sr., and the other, Bradley, Jr.”