s molasses finger. 'That's funny. This ain't a gold-mining
country. And you invested all your capital on a stranger's story?
Well, well! These Indians of mine--they are the last of the tribe of
Peches--are simple as children. They know nothing of the purchasing
power of gold. I'm afraid you've been imposed on,' says he.

"'Maybe so,' says I, 'but it sounded pretty straight to me.'

"'W. D.,' says the King, all of a sudden, 'I'll give you a square deal.
It ain't often I get to talk to a white man, and I'll give you a show
for your money. It may be these constituents of mine have a few grains
of gold-dust hid away in their clothes. To-morrow you may get out these
goods you've brought up and see if you can make any sales. Now, I'm
going to introduce myself unofficially. My name is Shane--Patrick Shane.
I own this tribe of Peche Indians by right of conquest--single handed
and unafraid. I drifted up here four years ago, and won 'em by my size
and complexion and nerve. I learned their language in six weeks--it's
easy: you simply emit a string of consonants as long as your breath
holds out and then point at what you're asking for.

"'I conquered 'em, spectacularly,' goes on King Shane, 'and then I went
at 'em with economical politics, law, sleight-of-hand, and a kind of New
England ethics and parsimony. Every Sunday, or as near as I can guess at
it, I preach to 'em in the council-house (I'm the council) on the law of
supply and demand. I praise supply and knock demand. I use the same text
every time. You wouldn't think, W. D.,' says Shane, 'that I had poetry
in me, would you?'

"'Well,' says I, 'I wouldn't know whether to call it poetry or not.'

"'Tennyson,' says Shane, 'furnishes the poetic gospel I preach. I always
considered him the boss poet. Here's the way the text goes:

"'"For, not to admire, if a man could learn it, were more
Than to walk all day like a Sultan of old in a garden of spice."

"'You see, I teach 'em to cut out demand--that supply is the main
thing. I teach 'em not to desire anything beyond their simplest needs.
A little mutton, a little cocoa, and a little fruit brought up from
the coast--that's all they want to make 'em happy. I've got 'em well
trained. They make their own clothes and hats out of a vegetable fibre
and straw, and they're a contented lot. It's a great thing,' winds up
Shane, 'to have made a people happy by the incultivation of such simple
institutions.'

"Well, the next