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Manuma was no longer a hero; he had to put up with a good deal of plain speaking, and one day what Walker had suggested came to pass: a heated argument turned into a quarrel and half a dozen of the young men set upon the chief's son and gave him such a beating that for a week he lay bruised and sore on the pandanus mats. He turned from side to side and could find no ease.
"Just wait here," he said, his voice sounded as though someone had seized him by the windpipe, "and I'll fetch you something from the dispensary." He got up. Was it his fancy that he staggered a little? Manuma stood silently, and though he kept his eyes averted, Mackintosh knew that he was looking dully out of the door.
"The devil, the impudent devil." He had no doubt it was Manuma who had flung the knife. He had escaped death by three inches. He was not angry. On the contrary, he was in high spirits; the adventure exhilarated him, and when they got back to the house, calling for drinks, he rubbed his hands gleefully. "I'll make them pay for this!" His little eyes twinkled.
"I am sick," he said at last. "Give me some medicine." "What is the matter with you?" "I do not know. I am sick. I have pains in my body." "Don't stand there," said Mackintosh sharply. "Come in and let me look at you." Manuma entered the little room and stood before the desk. "I have pains here and here." He put his hands to his loins and his face assumed an expression of pain.
It would not have been the first time that he had thrashed a native with his own hands; they knew his strength, and though Walker was three times the age of the young man and six inches shorter they did not doubt that he was more than a match for Manuma. No one had ever thought of resisting the savage onslaught of the administrator. But Walker said nothing. He chuckled.
It was this other person that possessed him that drove him out of the room, but it was himself that took a handful of muddled papers and threw them on the revolver in order to hide it from view. He went to the dispensary. He got a pill and poured out some blue draught into a small bottle, and then came out into the compound. He did not want to go back into his own bungalow, so he called to Manuma.
"Bless you, they wouldn't hurt me, these people. They couldn't do without me. They worship me. Manuma is a fool. He only threw that knife to frighten me." The next day Walker rode over again to the village. It was called Matautu. He did not get off his horse.
Somewhere Manuma sat quietly and awaited his opportunity. Walker won game after game and pocketed his winnings at the end of the evening in high good humour. "You'll have to grow a little bit older before you stand much chance against me, Mac. The fact is I have a natural gift for cards." "I don't know that there's much gift about it when I happen to deal you fourteen aces."
Manuma began to plead, half in Samoan and half in English. It was a sing-song whine, with the quavering intonations of a beggar, and it filled Mackintosh with disgust. It outraged him that the man should let himself be so crushed. He was a pitiful object. "I can do nothing," said Mackintosh irritably. "You know that Mr Walker is master here." Manuma was silent again. He still stood in the doorway.
But when he found that no attempt was made to start work, he went to the village and asked the men what silly game they were playing. Manuma had coached them well. They were quite calm, they did not attempt to argue and argument is a passion with the Kanaka they merely shrugged their shoulders: they would do it for a hundred pounds, and if he would not give them that they would do no work.
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