Then presently there came down envoys from the King of Okky demanding with a fine inconsistency that O'Neill and Craven's factory should pay his Majesty the transit blackmail which he had been unable to collect himself. Carter was sent for, post-haste, from Malla-Nulla, and was at first minded to tell those envoys to go to a kingdom which repute says is even hotter than West Africa. But thoughts of Laura living there by herself, and a dread of the horrors of native war made him offer a compromise. "Open the roads," said he, "and we'll pay up these fellows' dues, though your King knows perfectly well he hasn't an atom of claim on this factory. It's the custom for traders to pay for going through a country if they can't avoid paying; they never pay once they are through; and never, never, never, throughout all the wicked history of Africa has there been a case of an English factory being fool enough to pay toll which its casual customers have slipped through without paying. But, as I say, I am ready to meet you in the matter. Open the roads and I'll dash you this amount you ask for." Kwaka, the head envoy, a big, fine, bold-eyed Haûsa, requested that the money might be handed them there and then. "Not one sixpence," said Carter, "till the roads are opened." The Haûsa was a professional soldier, and here he could see was going to be a chance of working at his trade. He gleefully delivered the King of Okky's ultimatum. If the tribute was not paid, the King would withdraw his permission for O'Neill and Craven's factories to exist on the Coast. "Tell your old King," said the Englishman contemptuously, "that he may have authority over his own filthy mud-villages inland, but his law does not carry along the Coast, as he knows full well. The Coast is the white man's." Things were going exactly as Kwaka could have wished. The man with the red head was warming up nicely. "If you fight when we come down to the factory," said Kwaka, "I will see to it that you are crucified separately. I should like to take the woman who lives here into my own harem, but the King has bespoken her already." "You," said Carter savagely, "a Moslem, ought to know shame for living in the employ of pagans like Okky-men. If you come back here, my first shot shall be for you, and after you are dead I will have that done to your face with the white man's doctor's tools as shall forever spoil its beauty. So that when the Prophet takes you up into Paradise, even the least of the houris will shrink from you and hide her eyes from all sight of you in the folds of her green robe. Just you stick that in your memory, Mr. Kwaka, and don't come boasting 'round here. Observe, I am a man of my hands: I can make white iron burn." He pulled a length of magnesium wire from his pocket and lit it with a match. The big Haûsa stared owlishly at the fierce white flame.