LITMIR.BIZ

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sailed, none of us, except perhaps McShea, were sorry Jack had come. He was at home on the deck of a schooner, and a fair second mate even if he did not have a master’s certificate. McShea gave him the vacant cabin next to mine which would have been the recruiter’s ordinarily, and he stowed his dunnage away in shipshape fashion.

      I noticed that he didn’t bring much stuff aboard, which showed he was no landsman. Tourists and those new to the sea invariably burden themselves with luggage, extra clothing, and patent comforts, half of which they throw overboard before the first leg of the cruise is done. Stuart had only two changes of clothing, his personal kit which didn’t half fill the small locker, and two or three books. Also a handy Spencer, an old rifle which seemed to be a favorite with him.

      Yes, Jack Stuart took kindly to the Madeleine. He stood his share of the work without any fuss. He was more use to us than Quin, who drank. And he seemed glad to be with us, without saying much about it.

      His quietness puzzled me. I thought the lad would be full of questions about the islands. But while he was all eyes when we loafed through one of the verdant groups, he seemed to know as much about them as I did, although not as much as McShea. And then there were the tales he had read.

      The first night out of Maryborough he came into my cubby and sat on my bunk to smoke a pipe. He had been on deck with Quin. The two didn’t mix well and when Stuart had had his fill of the fresh night air and the stars, he dropped in on me as I was turning into “blanket bay.”

      “We are heading for the New Hebrides, aren’t we, Mr. Haskins?” he asked.

      “Not directly,” I informed him. “Our schedule takes us north to the Santa Cruz group first. Then south to Santo—about a day’s run.”

      “Santo?” He looked at me curiously out of level brown eyes. “That is the island that used to be called Espiritu Santo?”

      “And still is, on many charts.”

      “A few miles from Leper’s Island?”

      “Yes,” I nodded, surprised at his knowledge of the island groups. “In spite of its name Leper’s Island is one of the beauty spots of Polynesia—clean and beautiful. The natives are cannibals of a rather disagreeable type, but their graves are gardens of dracenas and hibiscus flowers.”

      “I know. The people there are a peculiar race, so light in complexion that they are almost white. That was why Captain Cook christened the island as he did. He thought they were lepers.”

      I had never heard that. By this time I was between my blankets.

      “Santo,” he said, half to himself. “Have you heard any legends about it?”

      “Nothing very muech,” I yawned. “Only the natives there talk about a race in the mountains—‘small fellow people’ they call them.”

      He nodded as if he had known as much. His familiarity with our points of visit would have aroused my curiosity if I had not been so sleepy.

      “Those would be the dwarfs of Santo. Some of the early French explorers give a good account of them. There is another legend I would like to tell you some day, Mr. Haskins.”

      “Never heard of any dwarfs in Santo. These niggers are as full of fairy stories as Chinamen,” I objected. “The men of Santo are an indifferent lot. We never recruit there.”

      He knocked the dottle from his pipe out the port. He wore a half smile which lighted up his dark, thin face.

      “You have not been in the interior of Santo, Mr. Haskins. I am glad we are going there.”

      With that he doused my light and said good night politely.

      During the run to the Santa Cruz group Stuart made himself generally useful. When we hove to off Vanikoro to land some returns he insisted on taking one of the boats to shore. At the time I remember that there was a flock of canoes about us filled with chattering natives. A new hand at the business might well be expected to feel a little uneasy, for the warriors were carrying their long spears and were whitened with lime.

      I went with Stuart in what we call the “covering boat.” We remained a short distance off the beach while Quin in the whaleboat pulled in with the returns. We took this precaution because the Vanikorans are not especially friendly and we had no wish to lose either Quin or the whaleboat.

      Naturally, the occasion was quite a festive one for the islanders, since the returned laborers brought a wealth of calicoes, tobacco, pipes, knives and what not with them, and all their friends were anxious to share in the expected wealth. Excitement ran high while the Kanakas larded from Quin’s boat which was in shallow water.

      I was watching the confusion in some amusement when I saw Stuart sit up alertly and give the order to give way, to the shore. Immediately the boat was in motion and at the same time I saw what had caught the lad’s eye.

      A big buck in a canoe alongside the whaleboat had stood up, swinging his club playfully over Quin’s head. I don’t think he meant any harm—as long as the covering boat was within easy rifle shot. But Quin distrusted the natives mightily. He reached up swiftly, the muzzle of his rifle catching the islander under the chin and the man was knocked backward into the water, with his club.

      In a second an excited jabbering set up among the Vanikorans. Most of them started to run for the bush, back of the beach. Several seized their rifles threateningly. The man that Quinn had hurt crawled away through the water, evidently fearing that we meant to kill him.

      The boat boys in our craft were handling their weapons eagerly, but I took pains to caution them not to shoot. Ill-treatment of the natives is to be avoided at all cost.

      It was Stuart who restored quiet.

      The lad talked to the frightened Kanakas reassuringly, and made it clear that the man who had wielded the war club would not be punished. Aided by the returns, he soon had the Vanikorans assembled once more on the beach.

      “No need to be alarmed,” he said calmly to Quin, who was scowling and nursing his rifle.

      “I suppose,” said the Irishman jeeringly, “ye would like to have a love feast, now, with the niggers. Some day soon, Mr. Stuart, I’ll have the burying of ye with a war club through the back of your skull.”

      Stuart turned to me.

      “The natives are still jumpy, Mr. Haskins. I think it would be a good plan to go ashore to establish good feeling again—if you expect to get more recruits here another trip. They probably have a feast ready for the returns, anyway.”

III.

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      WHAT he said was true, more or less. The Polynesian is quick to distrust his white visitor. And as quick to forget his anger. I had intended giving them some presents to smooth over the incident of the war club.

      But Stuart insisted on going ashore and having a palaver. Mind you, that was not an easy thing for a newcomer at the trade to do. It was more than risky; it was dangerous. The Vanikorans were grouped on shore, fully armed, a score of the young men flourishing their weapons and leaping about—just out of animal spirits.

      “We’ll take our rifles,” I decided.

      “We can hunt a bit, you know,” he agreed. “I expect there are pigeons in the woods and we need fresh meat in the Madeleine.”

      So the two of us made the Vanikorans understand our purpose. They were delighted at the prospect. Leaving the grumbling Quin in charge of the boats, we struck inshore, among the network of vines and lofty trees that stretched down to the beach. Cockatoos fluttered around us and pigeons, of which we garnered a good bag.

      The natives followed us into the bush, exclaiming at our marksmanship. I had a modern rifle, but did not make as good a showing as Stuart with his old one. The boy had a keen eye and a sure trigger finger. He pushed

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