manding position at the head of the companionway—hand on hilt, helmet strap under chin, and the medals of seven wars glittering across his breast. McDonald Bimbashi, none the less erect and solemn, flanked his left, while Colonel Spottiswoode laughed: "I will abide at thy right side—in the whitest of white linens."
"Try to make a show before these people," Lyttleton whispered. "They love it."
Zack likewise had on linens, inherited from the Colonel, but he persisted in skirmishing to the rear. The way those white folks kept nudging each other was enough to make any negro skittish. "Here, Zack," Lyttleton ordered, "step forward and stand fast."
Zack inched forward and stood tolerably fast. He heard the thump, thump of that Golo drum, and the plunk, plunk, plunk of the courbee; but it didn't sound good to him. Zack felt dubious about the whole performance. In fact he had a hunch that something was about to happen, and his questioning face shifted like a full black moon from one gentleman to another.
The Golos were coming, and Zack felt himself slipping. First of all, the youngest woman came up the companionway, head and naked shoulders, and gleaming teeth. She wore a kirtle of loose cords that dangled nearly to her knees, and greasy hair that dangled to her shoulders. Besides that
