Kataafa with his trusted chiefs marched solemnly to the Herzovinian consulate at Matafeli. Count Rosen had taken up his abode in the consulate. He received the chiefs in silence, and sent word at once for Klinger to appear to act as interpreter. The count had that morning been appointed by the rebel king his prime minister, and the three consuls had acknowledged, in grudging terms, the “de facto” government, as they pointedly expressed it. Klinger did not appear and finally the native messenger returned with the information that Missi Klinger was very sick. The count excused himself to the chiefs, telling them to wait, and hurried away to see what was the matter. There on a low couch in the store office he found the manager, but just regaining consciousness. A white doctor was attending him, examining his entire body carefully for serious injuries. The story of the encounter with the Americans was told most graphically to the count by a number of native eye-witnesses, and each described the strength of the “young David” as greater than that of “Sampson” himself. The Kapuans are well up on the Bible and glory in airing their knowledge. Klinger, when he came to himself, made a great effort to rise, thinking his antagonist was still before him, but the doctor’s strong hands, applying wet bandages to a very ugly contusion over his temple, upon which he had struck in his fall, held him quiet. The count had taken a seat at his side. He wore a displeased frown as he listened to the babble about him. “Clear them out, please,” he exclaimed irritably. The women were sent away, all but Klinger’s wife, Fanua, who waited patiently to be told what to do. Klinger at length sat up and gazed about him. He raised a hand to his aching head and felt the great bulk of wet dressing plastered by the doctor over his cut. Then he read the displeasure evident in the count’s face. “They did me,” he exclaimed. “One of them hit me with a black-jack.” “You’ve made yourself the laughing stock of the town,” the count declared angrily. “I’ve heard the story. It was simply science against unwieldy beef.” “I’ll show the young aristocrat,” the manager began to bluster, but the count cut him short impatiently. “You’ll just drop this thing where it is,” he commanded authoritatively. “It was a childish piece of folly to put up that cartoon, and the youngster has my admiration. You should thank your stars you haven’t a broken neck instead of only a small cut in your hard head. He used jujitsu on you.” Such words did not sound sweet to Klinger’s ears. He was unaccustomed to being taken to task thus wise, and the sullen expression on his face showed plainly his displeasure. “Get yourself in shape,” the count added, his voice less severe in tone. “Kataafa and his chiefs have come to the consulate, and I won’t trust any of these professional native interpreters.”