The Kanaka contracted his brow for a minute.
"Four years, or maybe five. Can't remember so long back," and he grinned. To the average Kanaka life is too full of ease and primitive comfort to do any "hard" mental labor.
We were soon on the return to Honolulu, and as our carriage swept along the beautiful Nuuanu Avenue, lined with stately palms and rich with vines and flowers, into the city proper, we continued to question Naini concerning the native we desired so much to find.
"Why you want to see him?" asked the Kanaka at last.
"He used to know a friend of mine," answered Oliver. "A man named Gaston Brown."
"Oh!" and that was all the carriage-driver said, but it seemed to me that a queer look crossed his face, although I thought nothing of it at the time. I had left the Queen's Hospital and all of us were now stopping at the principal hotel of Honolulu, a spacious hostelry set in a garden which was full of gracious shade and beauty. In the garden was a bandstand, and here a local band gave a concert that evening, to which we boys listened with interest, for we all loved music, and what was furnished was certainly of a good order, even if it was more popular than classical.
"I am going to find out about the trip to
