"Mister Lyttleton, what make you say dey's comin' atter me? I ain't did nothin' to nobody." Zack's mind flashed back to the gleam of a knife, and a red-eyed negro with frizzles on top of his head. Lyttleton kept smiling, a smile more serious than tears. When the Colonel smiled, Zack knew that everything was all right, but this British smile took the stiffening out of his legs. Then the Major laughed, which was worse: "Colonel Spottiswoode, change your kit—frock coat—top hat, something impressive. McDonald, regulation togs for you. Dress parade on deck to receive envoys from the Sultan of Bong."
McDonald saluted rigidly; orders were orders and nothing more.
Then Lyttleton turned upon Zack—Lyttleton was not a humorous person. "Mr. Honorable Black Effendi, it pleases the Sultan of Bong to show his gratitude. He will dispatch his royal messengers to make you a gift."
"Yas suh, dat's all right, suh." Zack glanced at the Colonel for help, and the Colonel inquired, "What do you mean, Lyttleton?"
"Your man has been mentioned for distinguished gallantry—Victoria Cross affair. He rescued the Highly Serene Donkey, which the Sirdar presented to the Sultan—in exchange for a tract of land about the size of Wales. His Majesty now desires to send a 'gift."
