If only she had had her
revolver or a rifle, all would have been well. But she had carelessly
ventured out unarmed, and she followed the glance of Gogoomy to her waist
and saw the pleased flash in his eyes as he perceived the absence of the
dreadful man-killing revolver.
The first article in the Solomon Islands code for white men was never to
show fear before a native, and Joan tried to carry off the situation in
cavalier fashion.
"Too much talk along you fella boy," she said severely. "Too much talk,
too little work. Savvee?"
Gogoomy made no reply, but, apparently shifting weight, he slid one foot
forward. The other boys, spread fan-wise about her, were also sliding
forward, the cruel cane-knives in their hands advertising their
intention.
"You cut 'm grass!" she commanded imperatively.
But Gogoomy slid his other foot forward. She measured the distance with
her eye. It would be impossible to whirl her horse around and get away.
She would be chopped down from behind.
And in that tense moment the faces of all of them were imprinted on her
mind in an unforgettable picture--one of them, an old man, with torn and
distended ear-lobes that fell to his chest; another, with the broad
flattened nose of Africa, and with withered eyes so buried under frowning
brows that nothing but the sickly, yellowish-looking whites could be
seen; a third, thick-lipped and bearded with kinky whiskers; and
Gogoomy--she had never realized before how handsome Gogoomy was in his
mutinous and obstinate wild-animal way.
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