He snorted at Sadler, and sat down.
"Now, Excellency," Dorcas says, "this way. Understand your position.
All right. Reasonable. First, if Pete Hillary is Jamaican, he's no
citizen of Portate. See? No good, anyway. No. British consul, he
don't care, except for the principle. Not really. No. You want to
pacify him, meaning his principle. That's so. Then that Hottentot
Society. Got to fix them. Course you have. Don't want to disoblige
honest voters of Ferdinand Street. No. Third; you got to celebrate
the majesty of laws and municipal guards. Good. Last; the Transport
Company. We don't want the Kid to chew his thumbs in jail for wetting
folks. Good land! No! You want to satisfy us. Complicated, ain't it?
But you're equal to it. You're a good one, Jefe. Sure. Now what's
needed? Something bold. Something skilful. We have it! Get him
banished, Excellency. Get him banished. Executive Edict from the
President. Big gun. Hottentots pleased and scared. Majesty of Great
Britain pacified. Majesty of municipal guards celebrated. Transport
Company don't object. Everybody happy. There, now!"
He put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, leaned back and beamed.
"Hum! You assist?" says the Mayor.
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