from the higher peaks, swept across his lanai and swished away through the row of ironwoods which stood sentinel between his house and the one next door. Out upon this lanai, or veranda, he had his typewriter, and under the inspiration of the winds and the dark blue-green coloring of the mountains and the silence, broken only by the birds and the swishing of the trees and the gentle sounds of the Japanese boy in the kitchen, concocting delectable dishes to be spread before him shortly here on this same lanai—his work slid out from under his typewriter with a swiftness and lucidity which made him "rejoice as a strong man to run a race."
And then suddenly everything stopped. The trade wind dropped, his grey matter refused to function—the only papers which came from the typewriter were wadded into unseemly balls and cast in the direction of the waste-basket with varying degrees of accuracy but much vehemence. A kona never lasts more than a few days, and comes only two or three times a year; but while it is on, the thermometer goes up, the barometer goes down, and profanity is the general order of conversation.
About four o'clock in the afternoon of the second day, Dick appeared in the kitchen doorway, mopping a very red face and nursing two vertical lines between his brows. "Moto," he said tersely, "go and get the hammer."
The Japanese turned inquiringly from the care-
