The Tale of the Shipwrecked Parent
beard. I dassent believe my eyes. The petty chiefs was crowding in around him, utterin' shrill cries. Alas, it was too true. The dye-stuff from Maaloo Island hadn't been made proof against the continued and corrodin' effects of tobacco juice. It had done its deadly devastation over night. The Sacred Whiskers had begun to crock and run.
"The Head Groom of the Bed Chamber was summoned on the jump. His acute and expert vision could not be fooled. He pronounced the whiskers a harrowing imitation that might have been made in Germany. Then the chiefs held a formal trial. I wasn't there. I was wildly searchin' for a seagoing canoe when they dragged me back from the beach. Five hours later the bogus god had been beaten to death with war clubs, and a bona fide human or home-grown set of whiskers was reigning in his stead. He had confessed all, miserable wretch that he was, and I was accused and tried for conspiracy.
"No, they didn't kill me, but they done me much worse. I was condemned to have my
