The Abdication of King Wilkins I
combing his whiskers as he moved with kingly stride. I slumped down on a bit of driftwood, my head in my hands, and waited for Heaven alone knew what. The moments dragged horribly, but it could not have been more than an hour before I heard shouts re-echoing from the grove, shouts of joy which merged into some kind of a slow, chanting music. Presently Hank Wilkins came from among the trees. His head was bound with a fillet of leaves, a fiber cloak was draped from his massive shoulders; and behind him streamed scores of villagers, dancing, singing, waving palm branches. Now and then a group of them would hurry on ahead to look at the oriflamme of a beard that lured them on, and to bow and posture before it in the most complete adoration.
I was panic-smitten, however, when a number of men rushed straight at me, and brandished clubs as if about to dash out my innocent brains. With savage shouts and fierce gestures, Hank Wilkins restrained his ardent followers, and hastened to embrace me and
