LITMIR.BIZ

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contended he was at least American born. Unlike them, he had not come out to the South Seas seeking hearth and saddle of his own. In fact, he had brought hearth and saddle with him. His advent had been in the Paumotus. He arrived on board a tiny schooner yacht, master and owner, a youth questing romance and adventure along the sun-washed path of the tropics. He also arrived in a hurricane, the giant waves of which deposited him and yacht and all in the thick of a cocoanut grove three hundred yards beyond the surf. Six months later he was rescued by a pearling cutter. But the sun had got into his blood. At Tahiti, instead of taking a steamer home, he bought a schooner, outfitted her with trade-goods and divers, and went for a cruise through the Dangerous Archipelago.

      As the golden tint burned into his face it poured molten out of the ends of his fingers. His was the golden touch, but he played the game, not for the gold, but for the game’s sake. It was a man’s game, the rough contacts and fierce give and take of the adventurers of his own blood and of half the bloods of Europe and the rest of the world, and it was a good game; but over and beyond was his love of all the other things that go to make up a South Seas rover’s life – the smell of the reef; the infinite exquisiteness of the shoals of living coral in the mirror-surfaced lagoons; the crashing sunrises of raw colours spread with lawless cunning; the palm-tufted islets set in turquoise deeps; the tonic wine of the trade-winds; the heave and send of the orderly, crested seas; the moving deck beneath his feet, the straining canvas overhead; the flower-garlanded, golden-glowing men and maids of Polynesia, half-children and half-gods; and even the howling savages of Melanesia, head-hunters and man-eaters, half-devil and all beast.

      And so, favoured child of the sun, out of munificence of energy and sheer joy of living, he, the man of many millions, forbore on his far way to play the game with Harrison J. Griffiths for a paltry sum. It was his whim, his desire, his expression of self and of the sun-warmth that poured through him. It was fun, a joke, a problem, a bit of play on which life was lightly hazarded for the joy of the playing.

IV

      The early morning found the Wonder laying close-hauled along the coast of Guadalcanal She moved lazily through the water under the dying breath of the land breeze. To the east, heavy masses of clouds promised a renewal of the southeast trades, accompanied by sharp puffs and rain squalls. Ahead, laying along the coast on the same course as the Wonder, and being slowly overtaken, was a small ketch. It was not the Willi-Waw, however, and Captain Ward, on the Wonder, putting down his glasses, named it the Kauri.

      Grief, just on deck from below, sighed regretfully.

      “If it had only been the Willi-Waw” he said.

      “You do hate to be beaten,” Denby, the supercargo, remarked sympathetically.

      “I certainly do.” Grief paused and laughed with genuine mirth. “It’s my firm conviction that Griffiths is a rogue, and that he treated me quite scurvily yesterday. ‘Sign,’ he says, ‘sign in full, at the bottom, and date it,’ And Jacobsen, the little rat, stood in with him. It was rank piracy, the days of Bully Hayes all over again.”

      “If you weren’t my employer, Mr. Grief, I’d like to give you a piece of my mind,” Captain Ward broke in.

      “Go on and spit it out,” Grief encouraged.

      “Well, then – ” The captain hesitated and cleared his throat. “With all the money you’ve got, only a fool would take the risk you did with those two curs. What do you do it for?”

      “Honestly, I don’t know, Captain. I just want to, I suppose. And can you give any better reason for anything you do?”

      “You’ll get your bally head shot off some fine day,” Captain Ward growled in answer, as he stepped to the binnacle and took the bearing of a peak which had just thrust its head through the clouds that covered Guadalcanar.

      The land breeze strengthened in a last effort, and the Wonder, slipping swiftly through the water, ranged alongside the Kauri and began to go by. Greetings flew back and forth, then David Grief called out:

      “Seen anything of the Willi-Waw?”

      The captain, slouch-hatted and barelegged, with a rolling twist hitched the faded blue lava-lava tighter around his waist and spat tobacco juice overside.

      “Sure,” he answered. “Griffiths lay at Savo last night, taking on pigs and yams and filling his water-tanks. Looked like he was going for a long cruise, but he said no. Why? Did you want to see him?”

      “Yes; but if you see him first don’t tell him you’ve seen me.”

      The captain nodded and considered, and walked for’ard on his own deck to keep abreast of the faster vessel.

      “Say!” he called. “Jacobsen told me they were coming down this afternoon to Gabera. Said they were going to lay there to-night and take on sweet potatoes.”

      “Gabera has the only leading lights in the Solomons,” Grief said, when his schooner had drawn well ahead. “Is that right, Captain Ward?”

      The captain nodded.

      “And the little bight just around the point on this side, it’s a rotten anchorage, isn’t it?”

      “No anchorage. All coral patches and shoals, and a bad surf. That’s where the Molly went to pieces three years ago.”

      Grief stared straight before him with lustreless eyes for a full minute, as if summoning some vision to his inner sight. Then the corners of his eyes wrinkled and the ends of his yellow mustache lifted in a smile.

      “We’ll anchor at Gabera,” he said. “And run in close to the little bight this side. I want you to drop me in a whaleboat as you go by. Also, give me six boys, and serve out rifles. I’ll be back on board before morning.”

      The captain’s face took on an expression of suspicion, which swiftly slid into one of reproach.

      “Oh, just a little fun, skipper,” Grief protested with the apologetic air of a schoolboy caught in mischief by an elder.

      Captain Ward grunted, but Denby was all alertness.

      “I’d like to go along, Mr. Grief,” he said.

      Grief nodded consent.

      “Bring some axes and bush-knives,” he said. “And, oh, by the way, a couple of bright lanterns. See they’ve got oil in them.”

V

      An hour before sunset the Wonder tore by the little bight. The wind had freshened, and a lively sea was beginning to make. The shoals toward the beach were already white with the churn of water, while those farther out as yet showed no more sign than of discoloured water. As the schooner went into the wind and backed her jib and staysail the whaleboat was swung out. Into it leaped six breech-clouted Santa Cruz boys, each armed with a rifle. Denby, carrying the lanterns, dropped into the stern-sheets. Grief, following, paused on the rail.

      “Pray for a dark night, skipper,” he pleaded.

      “You’ll get it,” Captain Ward answered. “There’s no moon anyway, and there won’t be any sky. She’ll be a bit squally, too.”

      The forecast sent a radiance into Grief’s face, making more pronounced the golden tint of his sunburn. He leaped down beside the supercargo.

      “Cast off!” Captain Ward ordered. “Draw the headsails! Put your wheel over! There! Steady! Take that course!”

      The Wonder filled away and ran on around the point for Gabera, while the whaleboat, pulling six oars and steered by Grief, headed for the beach. With superb boatmanship he threaded the narrow, tortuous channel which no craft larger than a whaleboat could negotiate, until the shoals and patches showed seaward and they grounded on the quiet, rippling beach.

      The next hour was filled with work. Moving about among the wild cocoanuts and jungle brush, Grief selected the trees.

      “Chop this fella tree; chop that fella tree,” he told his blacks. “No chop that other fella,” he said, with a shake of head.

      In the end, a wedge-shaped segment of jungle was cleared. Near to the beach remained one long

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