Silverside/Part 1

by Henry C. Rowland

 

I.

WHEN one's father has been as good a man as mine was, the son is naturally expected to inherit all of his virtues, especially when the mother suffered a sort of voluntary martyrdom in giving up most of the things which she held most dear: friends, family, and the charm which the city of Boston is said to hold for her citizens, and going out to live and work amongst savages and cannibals. My mother did not long survive her life as the wife of a missionary in the Paumotas, and I remember her faintly as a sweet, starry-eyed woman, who spent the most of her time clinging to my father or reading on the verandah of the mission bungalow.

When I was twelve years old the society took me as a ward, and I was sent away to school in Massachusetts and afterwards to Harvard University, where I graduated as M.D. at the age of twenty-two. It was understood that I was to return in due time to help my father in carrying on his work in the South Sea Islands. I can't remember that my own tastes were ever consulted in the matter, nor did it ever occur to me to make any protest. In all of this time and the two years of hospital work which followed I never got back to the Islands, but I saw my father twice on his return home,” where, through lectures and through his strong personal magnetism, he managed to augment the funds of the society enough to enable him to carry on his work on a scale more approaching that which his abilities warranted. He was a big-framed man, rather below the medium height, with yellow, curly hair flecked with white; very clear, intent blue eyes, and blonde, bushy eyebrows. His manner was rather that of a sea-captain than of a minister, and on his last visit I was struck by the fact that he seemed to take more satisfaction in my athletic standing than in the good reports of intellectual progress which the medical faculty was kind enough to give him.

“We need men to carry on God's work in the Islands, Douglas,” said he. Then, giving me a keen look, he asked abruptly:

“Are you quite satisfied with the career which you have chosen?”

“Yes, father,” I answered. And that was all that I would tell him, although I could see that it was not enough.

As a matter of fact I was anything but satisfied, and his words, “the career which you have chosen,” made me smile to myself. I had never in my life had the opportunity of choosing anything. It had all been done for me at the cost of the society. I had grown up in bond, as one might say. My education was the result of scholarships; the food which I ate, the clothes which I wore, the roof which covered me all came through the society, of which the president was a Boston clergyman who had married a rich woman and lived like a prince, and the chief contributor a wealthy sugar planter in Honolulu. Everybody had always been very kind to me, and I had been entertained much more than I had any reason to expect. Perhaps it may have been merely the restiveness and sensitiveness of youth, but for some reason I could never seem to get rid of the idea that I was not my own man; that I was in a way indentured to the society. But I had already received too much to think of resigning. The society had given me my education, and was entitled to my services. Thank God, I had a sufficient sense of decency never to consider the course taken by a class-mate in the medical school. He had been a missionary in Africa, and, getting rather tired of preaching to negroes, had represented to the people who had sent him there that he would be much more efficient were he qualified to minister to the physical as well as the spiritual needs of his flock. Accordingly, they put him through the medical school, when, on receiving his diploma, he blandly announced that he did not feel that his state of health warranted his return to the African climate, but expressed himself as very anxious to refund the money spent by the society on his medical education. Having absolutely no means of his own, he suggested that the different members of the society should throw as much practice as possible his way, which they accordingly did, and in five years' time he had built up a practice of which the receipts for a very few months were quite adequate to settle all of his obligations to the society.

Perhaps some people may think me foolish, feeling as I did, to have stuck to the bargain made for me, but there was less of conscience about it than family pride. My determination was even strengthened, I think, when in my second year of the medical school the news came that an expedition of my father's to the Solomons had been cut off and the whole party massacred. The picture of my father's skull bleaching on the end of a stake made me quite eager to get out there and at work, though I can't say that the sentiment was one which the society might have approved. To tell the truth, I had often thought, and think still, that the offspring of exceedingly good people is more apt to inherit the harsh passions which skipped a generation in the parents than to fall heir to their unusual virtues.

It was understood, then, that I was to go out and take up my father's work, and it was even suggested that an extra course in theology might be an advantage. I compromised by being ordained a deacon, then said good-bye to my friends and started for Oceanica, wondering just what peculiar civilising effect I was destined one day to exert on the islanders of the sub-group where my father had met his death. I was to take up his work in a general way, and to organise a number of hospital stations throughout the archipelago, making rounds from time to time as the conditions might indicate. This I agreed to undertake. It did not seem necessary to me to mention another mission of a more personal character which I hoped one day to accomplish in the Solomons.

I cannot say that I was sorry to leave for the Pacific. From now on, at least, I could feel that I was earning my own living and more or less of a free agent. It is morally stifling for a young man to feel that every mouthful he eats comes from the hand of charity, even though he happens himself to be a future active factor of the charity itself. Besides, hitherto my life had always been repressed, its every action controlled by the desire to reflect credit on the source of all my benefits. It was not as though my father had been the underpaid agent or employé of some commercial organisation, as then I might have felt that as the son of a faithful servant I was receiving no more than was due to me, considering his years of loyal effort and ultimate martyrdom. On the other hand, the society was really under no more obligation to me than it was to the native of Oceanica, or, at least, I looked at it in that way.

So out I went to San Francisco, and there took passage for Samoa, intending to make my way from this point as best I might to the Low Archipelago. In my father's time the society had owned a small brig, which my father navigated himself, and I had been given to understand that if I fulfilled what was expected of me I might in time count on having a vessel for the work of the mission. My father's missionary brig, the Christian Faith, had been built for the society in San Francisco, and duly consecrated to her work, which apparently had not prevented her from being pillaged and either sunk or burned by a mob of cannibals, for she had never been seen or heard of after that fatal expedition to the Solomons; indeed, all of the circumstances of the tragedy were rather vague, and based on reports which came from island gossip. A trading schooner which went to the same island some months later, however, had gathered information enough to remove practically all doubt that the crew of the Christian Faith had been lured ashore and speared; and the trader had seen a litter of stuff about the village which had been stripped recently from a vessel of some description. He had not been able to examine it, suspecting danger, and having had to fight his own way back to his boat, which escaped with a loss of two men.

The ship which I took passage on was a slow and rather uncomfortable old tub, notwithstanding which her passenger list was fairly well filled. Shortly after the ship had sailed I went into the smoking-room, lighted my pipe, and sat looking idly at those of my shipmates who had gathered there. Some were already entering into conversation. In the corner a little group had started a poker game, and a couple of Australian ranchers were discussing the price of wool and a new process for extracting the animal oil. Opposite me, in a corner, a squarely-built, grizzled man, with a weather-beaten face and blue lips, was muffled in a heavy ulster reading a newspaper, and occasionally sipping a hot grog. I noticed him particularly, because he looked exceedingly ill, and I was diagnosing his disease as bad valvular heart action, probably the result of hardship and intemperance, when he looked up, and his eyes caught mine, and it seemed to me that a peculiar flash, as of recognition, came into his face. He gave me a short, hard stare, then glanced down at his paper again.

Not caring to read, I sat there studying the different types, and wondering how nearly a future acquaintance would prove the opinions which I formed as to character and condition. The room grew rather hot, and presently the square man in the corner got up and took off his ulster. He was perspiring now, and his face looked blotchy and unwholesome under its weather-beaten tan. Nevertheless, it was a rugged, handsome face, and the shape and contour of the features suggested a good race. It was also plain that he had been in his prime a man of tremendous physical strength and activity, and one could see from the way his coat hung from his powerful shoulders that there was a giant, bony frame under the wasted muscles. He was dressed expensively, although his clothes were ill-fitting, as though his emaciation had been recent and considerable.

His hard eyes rested on me again before he sat down, and the stare was so searching as to irritate me. I showed my annoyance, no doubt, for he resumed his reading, presently to throw down the paper, touch the bell, and, in a voice like the growl of a Kadiak bear, told the smoking-room steward to bring him a passenger list.

Getting bored, presently I went out on deck, wondering what there was about me that had excited the curiosity of this tough-looking old customer. I did not see him again until the following day, when I happened to be talking to a fellow-passenger, a San Franciscan.

“Do you know who that man is?” I asked, indicating him.

“Yes,” he answered. “That is Captain Daniel Fairfax, one of the old-time Pacific traders. He was a pretty hard lot, I understand. The doctor told me about him last night. It appears that Fairfax has recently piled up a big fortune through some mining claims where they have struck it rich; but, according to the doctor, he's not going to live long enough to get any good out of it. Aneurism of the aorta, complicated by Bright's diabetes, and occasional attacks of delirium tremens. Looks it, doesn't he?”

It struck me that the ship's doctor must have a nice idea of professional confidence, but I did not say so. My acquaintance left me to take a hand in a poker game, and a little later, as I was leaning on the rail and staring out at the sea, which was getting up a bit, I heard a heavy step behind me, and turned to see Captain Fairfax. His hard mouth, with its blue lips and bristling moustache, wore a hard expression.

“I've got you now, young man,” said he; and his voice was hoarse and short of breath. “You must be the son of the 'Reverend Captain Jack,' of the Paumotas.”

“Right,” I answered. “Was he a friend of yours?”

“No doubt he meant to be. I love his memory, anyhow. He was the only man that ever licked me in a fair fight, and he a missionary at that. Poor chap! they tell me the Solomon Islanders got him, brig and all. Well, well ... a fine man your father, lad, if he did play my wife the scurviest trick a man ever played on a woman.”

“What's that?” I cried, swinging around and straightening up. Captain Fairfax chuckled.

“He licked me into marrying her,” said he. His bloodshot eyes lighted with a sudden interest as they rested on me. “You are like your dad, boy, but a far better figure of a man. You've got the height and the width as well as the weight. Missionary, too?”

I nodded. “Medical,” I answered.

“Well, that's better than psalm-singin'; but, d—— it all, you're too good meat to feed to niggers. However, I reckon it's in the blood; bred in the bone like. I'm Captain Fairfax, retired island trader and philanthropist. Charity begins at home. Come, have a drink.”

I accepted, the offer, and we went into the smoking-room. Over his grog and my beer Fairfax set to work to pump me, which was no great effort, considering that I had nothing to conceal, and that I knew him only as a friendly disposed man who could give me a great amount of hard, practical advice. He listened to me with a hard, mocking glint in his grey eyes.

“Your snuffle-bustin' society is buying salvation at your expense, son,” said he, when I had told him something of my early life. “It ain't a square deal. You're holdin' up one end and a big missionary society is holdin' up the other ... and the light end at that. Your keep and education hasn't cost 'em much. Any one of those rich people would feel the drain about as much as the old Pacific feels that....” And he spat over the rail.

“Just the same,” I answered, “the obligation is there, somewhere, and I'm no quitter.”

He shook his head. “There ain't any obligation,” said he. “It's not as if you'd undertaken the job, knowingly. They took you as a child and brought you up without ever takin' the trouble to find out if your heart was in the work. And it ain't. Shucks! what a raisin' for a lad with arms and legs and a strong heart. You've been growin' like an acorn in a bottle. When other boys around you were cuttin' their teeth on bones, you've been fed with the hind teat of a missionary society. I'll bet you've never been drunk. I'll bet you never struck a man in anger. I'll bet you never kissed a woman...” he laughed, then fell to coughing until his face grew purple and the sweat burst out on his rough forehead. When he finally conquered the paroxysm and looked up at me, his eyes were bulging, his breath coming in whistling gasps, and the veins of his neck seemed ready to burst. “Am ... am I right?” He gasped.

“'A quare duck,' he said. 'Come out on your ship docthor?'”

“To some extent,” I answered, and was half inclined to tell him that if those things were his gods they hadn't profited him much. He seemed to guess my thought, for a strangling chuckle shook his massive frame.

“Yes, son,” said he, “I've had my share of all three in my time. Now I'm going fast ... and hell must be hungry for 'big devil Fairfax.'” His face darkened.

After that he remained quiet, but encouraged me to talk. The paroxysm seemed to have left him very weak, and a little later he got up, saying that he was going to his room to lie down.

That night, after dinner, as I was walking on deck, the steward came up to me and said that Captain Fairfax wished to see me. I found him in his bunk, and the first glance at his face made me wonder if he would last to reach Honolulu. It was plain enough that he was a dying man.

“Son,” said he, speaking with some difficulty, “I want a few words with you.”

“Go ahead, captain,” I answered.

“There's something I want you to do,” said he. “I've a wife and daughter somewhere out there in the islands. Fifteen years ago I up stick and sailed away and left them—never mind why. But now that the end is near I don't like to slip my cable, leavin' them struck adrift. See?”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“I don't know. Two years ago I sent a schooner to the old place to look for them, but they had gone. Silverside had been there and taken them away.”

“Who is Silverside?” I asked.

“He was my cook; man or devil, I'm not sure which. Silverside has hid them somewhere. I want you to find Therese, my wife, and give her a last message from me, and make her claim my fortune for herself and the child. The message is that I'm sorry for the way I treated her, and beg her to forgive me. The fortune comes to a couple of million and odd dollars.”

I stared at him, too astonished to speak. Fairfax gave me a grim smile.

“Of course, doctor, you're not workin' for nothing,” said he. “You come ashore with me at Honolulu and we'll get a lawyer and draw up the business, all shipshape and proper. I'll stake you for three years to make the search, and if you succeed you get a hundred thousand dollars. Then,” he gave me a grin, “you can buy your freedom from your missionary society, and so settle that little account of yours in the Solomons. Do you get me, lad?”

“Not quite,” I answered. “Why should you make me an offer like this when the chances are that all you would need to do is to advertise or offer a small reward to find your wife and child?”

He shook his shaggy head. “Therese hates me as the devil hates holy water,” said he. “She'll need some persuadin'. Then, there's a man that hates me worse, if that's possible, and will do his best to keep her from takin' a cent of my money. Besides this, only for your father I'd be outward bound to hell with a blacker sin on my soul than it has got now, and that's sayin' a lot.” Again the grim smile, but there was with it a suggestion of terror in the grey, bloodshot eyes, and I guessed that Fairfax was one of those hard, ruthless folk who are never quite able to escape the influence of early religious teachings. “I owe a lot to your father's memory, lad,” said he, “so don't try to hinder me for makin' it up a little if I can. Finding Therese won't be so hard. Your work comes in persuadin' her to take my fortune for herself and the little girl.”

“How would you go about finding her?” I asked. “The Pacific is a big place. Besides, she may not be in it.”

“Little doubt o' that. She loved that island life and hated her own country. But there are two men in the Pacific who can tell you where to find her, if you can make 'em do it. One is a Chinese comprador at Suva, on Viti Levu in the Fijis. Calls himself 'Von Bulow' out of compliment to his German customers. He gets contracts from the German Navy for coal and boats, and boiler-tubes and divin' jobs and the like. Von Bulow is the Pacific almanac. Knows everything. The other man is Silverside.” Fairfax's voice changed a little in key. “No doubt of his knowin' where they are, but he'd be the last to tell you. There's a way of makin' him,. though, if you could get a chance to use it.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Torture,” said Fairfax, grimly.

“Torture,” I echoed, and gave him a quick look to see if he were in earnest. There was no mistaking the cold glare of the bloodshot eyes, and the expression of the ruthless mouth. “What do you take me for?” I demanded—“a Spanish inquisador?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn't take much,” he said. “When it comes to gettin' hurt a bit, the man's not got the sand of a jack rabbit. A few licks of a rope's end would make him sell his own sister into slavery. But, of course, I don't ask even that. As for Von Bulow, he might tell you something, if you made it worth his while. I leave that to you. Anyhow, there's the offer. Three years found, with a schooner to make your search, and a hundred thousand to you when my fortune is made over to my heirs. Is it a go?”

I was silent for a mcment, then said:

“But look here, captain, you can't be sure that you won't last for a good many years...”

“Yes, I can,” he interrupted, harshly. “Three months is my outside limit. The 'grim old man' is mighty close to 'Big Devil Fairfax.' I'm goin' fast. Attacks come oftener, and each one is apt to finish me. Besides, there's all the expert testimony. Come now, what d'ye say? Is it a go?”

But I had still a question, and asked:

“What if your wife claims the fortune of her own accord ... without my finding her?”

“You get your hundred thou' just the same. But it has got to be within three years. If my heirs don't claim it in that time it goes differently. We'll draw up the papers in Honolulu. You've got the whole day there. Then you will go on to Apia and wait there for Captain Billy Connor, of the schooner Favorite. I'll send him a cable. He's the man that went to look for them at the old place and found 'em gone. You'll charter his vessel. How about it—yes or no?”

“Yes,” I answered, slowly, and he stretched out to me his big, but wasted, hand.

II.

It may seem strange, considering the stress that I have laid upon my sense of obligation to the society, that I should have been so ready to accept Captain Fairfax's offer to carry out his behests, especially as I knew nothing about the man, beyond what he himself had told me. For all I knew his fortune might be far less than the figures which he had given; and, as for the wife and daughter whom he had deserted, there was no assurance that in the fifteen years which had elapsed they were still alive or to be found in the isles of the Pacific. According to Fairfax himself, they had disappeared, leaving no trace, and the quest seemed at first glance both hopeless and futile.

Then why did I agree to undertake it? There were several reasons. In the first place, I had formed the idea of making the society co-beneficiary in case of my success. Half of the big premium offered by Fairfax should I find his wife and daughter was to go to the society; and this, I decided, would much more than pay off all personal obligation of my own. Secondly, I believed that Fairfax was telling the truth as he had stated his case. He knew that he was a dying man, and there seemed absolutely no reason to suppose that he was lying. And thirdly, it had occurred to me that the time spent in the search, even though it were to fail, would be of infinite value as an experience and to gain a fuller knowledge of the character of work ahead of me. Last of all, I remembered a tale which my father had once told me which exactly coincided with Fairfax's story of how he had been coerced into marriage. My father had mentioned no names, but, according to the dim account, as I remembered it, he had met with a trader who had practically kipnapped a beautiful young French girl, scarcely more than a child, from a Catholic mission school in Tahiti. My father had urged that he be permitted to perform the marriage ceremony; the trader had ridiculed the idea, but, finally offered to consent if the missionary was able to thrash him in a fist fight. My father had agreed, then stripped and pounded his adversary into a pulp, after which he had dragged him half-senseless before the proper witnesses and made the union binding in the sight of God and man. Such was my father, “the Rev. Captain Jack,” as he was known in Polynesia. And it seemed to me that as his son, and one destined to carry on his work, I was in a manner bound to carry out the last chapter of the story.

Captain Fairfax did not leave his bunk for two days, nor did he send for me, but the day before reaching Honolulu he came on deck looking very far gone, and joined me where I stood by the rail.

“I was beginning to be afraid that our deal might fall through,” said he, in a gruff, though quavering, voice. “What would you have done if I hadn't lasted to sign articles?”

“Gone ahead with my work,” I answered, “but I would have been always on the look-out for your wife and daughter. And I would have run down to Fiji to talk to Von Bulow.”

He gave me a pat on the arm. “Good lad,” he muttered. “After all, there's a certain amount of good in missionaries ... though I never expected to admit it. The early ones I knew were mostly fanatical asses, bigoted as h——, and gropin' for a heavenly crown in the belly of a cannibal. But the breed seemed to change with your dad. As soon as they started to send out real men things changed a heap.” He hooked his arm into mine. “Let's go forra'd and watch this dude of a mate get his hatches off and lay out his gear.”

We strolled forward and leaned over the rail under the bridge. Below us the hands were stripping the tarpaulins off the hatches, and the donkey-man was trying the winch. It was hot, and two or three stokers who had just come up from the fire-room were standing by the rail, the bosoms of their flannel shirts open to the draught from the port bow. As Captain Fairfax started to make some remark, one of them turned and shot an upward glance over his shoulder. I happened to be looking at the man, wondering how one of his meagre frame could support the physical strain of stoking, when I heard a gasping gurgle beside me. I turned to see Fairfax shove himself back at arm's length from the rail. The next instant his body swayed to the side, and I barely managed to catch him in time to keep him from crashing on the deck.

With the aid of two passengers and a deck steward I got him to his bunk, when the ship's doctor, whose patient he had been during the voyage, took him in charge and proceeded to inject strychnine. Fairfax was still unconscious and breathing stertorously when I went out, but he recovered consciousness soon after. That evening, just before dinner, he sent for me.

“A nasty attack of the heart,” said he. “The medico in San Francisco told me I might go out in any one of those.”

“You can't tell,” I answered. “Perhaps the change of climate may buck you up. At any rate, you look better now than I have seen you, so far.”

He did not appear to have noticed my remark. Presently he said:

“Lad, did you notice that big, bony stoker standing by the door of the firemen's forecastle?”

“Yes,” I answered. “What about him?”

“Tell me, now, did he have his shirt on or off ... I could not see well, my head being a bit confused.”

“His shirt was on,” said I, wondering what he was driving at.

“Naturally,” Fairfax assented. “The stokers are not permitted to appear in sight of passengers without their shirts on this virtuous line. It was just my fancy. His hair was white, was it not?”

“No, captain,” I answered, suspecting his mind of rambling a bit. “The man's hair was black and stubbly, as if the clippers had been run over it within the fortnight.”

His expression showed relief, and he nodded his head weakly.

“There,” said he, “I have taken to seeing things again. That's the drink. The same thing happened ten days ago in Frisco. I was thinkin' of an old enemy ... a man that has reason to hate me, and I looked up from the bed where I was lying to see his face staring at me through the transom over the door. The shock was too much for this rotten heart of mine, and I fainted then, just like to-day. Now this stoker ... how old would you put him, son?”

“Oh ... about thirty,” I answered. “Maybe, thirty-five. To tell the truth, captain, I didn't notice him particularly. I was too busy with you.”

He nodded. “It's the rum,” said he. “I've been hittin' it too strong these last weeks. The man had scrubby, black hair, you say?” He gave his harsh but gurgling laugh. “Yes, I'm seein' things. All right, lad; we'll be in to-morrow at daylight, and I guess I'll last to get our business settled.”

I left him shortly afterwards, and did not see him until the following morning, when he sent for me early and gave me a note to take to the bank, telling me to come afterwards to the hotel. These directions I carried out, going first to the bank and then to the hotel, where I found Fairfax in bed attended by a local physician. Shortly afterwards a gentleman, who was a leading lawyer of Honolulu, came in, accompanied by one of the directors of the bank. It appeared that Fairfax had previously transferred a considerable bulk of his big fortune to the bank at Honolulu, and everything being in order the lawyer proceeded to draw up his will, a simple matter, as the whole of the estate was left to the wife and daughter, and the provision made, as agreed between us, for my search and the hundred thousand dollars to be paid me. In the event of my failure this will was to be destroyed in favour of one previously executed, and in the hands of Fairfax's solicitors in San Francisco, the contents of which I had no knowledge.

After the drawing up of the will I shook hands with Fairfax and went with the official to the bank, where I was paid in cash the first year's allowance, which was, by the way, doubly adequate for the purpose. This done, I called on the leading member of the society, who was, as I have said, a sugar exporter of Honolulu, and told him exactly what I had done. He was a genial old gentleman, whose acquaintance I had previously made, and when he had recovered from the first shock of my somewhat unusual story, he agreed with me that I had acted properly.

“As to going halves with the society in the event of your success,” said he, pursing up his lips, “I must say that it strikes me that you are rather more than settling your obligation. What you have received from the society is really no more than was your due, considering your father's faithful service and ultimate sacrifice. But the cause is a noble one, and I can only advise you to consult your own feeling in the matter.”

When I went back aboard the ship, the first person whom I met was the doctor, a nice young fellow for whom I had formed a liking. He was talking with the chief engineer, who appeared to be much irritated because one of his stokers had managed to slip off for a ramble ashore. It appeared that the man was the most efficient in his watch, and the others being rather a poor lot, the chief was all the more vexed, as he would otherwise have left the man on the beach and signed on another.

The doctor informed me that we were not to sail until daylight, and being interested in the case of Captain Fairfax, who had, he told me, given him a handsome fee, he suggested that we call at the hotel and see how he was getting on. Accordingly, after dinner, we went up to the hotel, and on sending up our names, were told that the captain would like to see us. We found him in a large and airy room, propped up in bed, and looking rather better.

“Perhaps you were right, lad,” said he, after we had chatted awhile. “This soft air is doin' wonders for me. I feel like a different man to-night. Who knows ... I might even live for the reconciliation.” And he winked at me with a rather dog-toothed grin.

I was sitting with my back to the jalousies of the window, which, like all the rest, opened on to a veranda running the length of the building, and as Fairfax finished speaking, it seemed to me that I heard a rustle behind me. Turning, I pushed the jalousies aside in time to see a dark figure slip into the room adjoining.

“What is it?” asked Fairfax, sharply, and as I glanced at him I saw that his face had the ferocity of a startled wild beast. “Did you hear somebody out there?”

“It's nothing but the man in the next room who was taking the air,” I answered. “We'd better go now, captain; you are tired and nervous, and must go to sleep.”

“I sleep very badly,” said he. “You might leave me a prescription for something, doctor.”

Miller, the ship's doctor, wrote him a prescription, when we said good-bye again and went out, returning a little later to the ship, which sailed an hour before sunrise. At luncheon, I asked the chief engineer, at whose table I sat, if his fireman had returned.

“Aye,” said he, “the beggar turned up, clean and sober for a wonder. When I asked him what he meant by skatin' off without leave, he up and tells me that he'd been to pay off a little debt he owed, and was afraid to trust it to anybody else. My word, I hardly knew the scut, he was rigged out so fine. White duck suit and a panama, with white shoes and a gold-headed malacca. That is how he got ashore. Fireman? He looked more like some graftin' missionary ... oh, I beg your pardon, Doctor Ames, But there are a few of that sort, you know.”

The run to Samoa was uneventful, and on landing at Apia I went up to the office of the agent of the line and asked if anybody could give me news of Captain Connor of the Favorite?

“Yes,” said the agent, “Connor is in port. That was the Favorite you passed coming in.”

So down to the beach I went and got a boat and was set aboard the schooner—an able-looking vessel, and as smartly kept as a yacht. As I went on deck I was met by a short, active man with curly, grizzled hair and shrewd, grey eyes which held a humorous twinkle.

“So you are the son of the rivirend Jack,” said he, heartily, when I had introduced myself. “I knew your father, sor. A fine man he was, too.”

He led me under the awning and offered me some gin and a cigar. I told him at once the object of my errand, saying simply that I had met Captain Fairfax and that he had authorised me to charter Connor's schooner to hunt for his wife and daughter, stating at the same time the price which Fairfax had himself suggested.

“'Tis too much,” said Connor, with a grin, “but I will not quarrel over it. Trade is poor, and I have been thinkin' of retirin' to live on me wits. Now let me think and see if I can remember some things I have been tryin' to forget.”

For several moments he sat staring out across the water, a cigar clenched in his strong teeth, and his eyes narrowed under their black, bushy eyebrows. Presently, said he:

“There are two people who might start us on the scent. One of thim is a Chinese comprador of Suva, callin' himself Von Bulow; the other is a young Frinch tradin' skipper named Gaston Berdou.”

“Captain Fairfax mentioned Von Bulow,” I answered. “He also spoke of one Silverside.”

Connor's head turned quickly.

“What did he say of Silverside?”

I told him, and Connor wrinkled up his forehead.

“Listen, docthor,” said he. “Far be it from me to malign the man I am wor'rking for, but betwixt you and me and thim quar'rter bitt no rougher customer than 'Big Devil Fairfax' ivir helped to civilise Oceanica. Folks will stand a lot out here, but the Pacific wather got too hot to hould Fairfax. The tale is that when finally he left, havin' some quarrel with this same Silverside, who might ha' been his cook or his agent or his rival for the affections of his wife—I dunno—Fairfax stretched him on the deck, swapped an ould burn scar on his side with nitric acid or vitriol or the like, and left him on a leper island. How he he escaped no man knows, but he asked. managed it, and was seen last to my knowledge in Tahiti a year ago. He was cook aboard Berdou's schooner, the Rossignol, at the time.”

“Do you know this Silverside, captain?” I asked.

“I saw him once or twice, year'rs ago, when he was sailin' with Fairfax.”

“What nationality is he?” I asked.

“Now lave me put on my specks and show me the thumb-mark”

“I misdoubt he has one. 'Tis said he speaks English like a lord, French like a markee, Spanish like a don, and Kanaka ayther in the chief's tongue ye find in the Sandwich Islands and amongst the Maoris, or just plain Kanaka. 'Tis a talented divil. A big, gaunt man, with the shoulders of a smith and the hands of a pianist. I mind his hair was straight and long and a silvery white, though whether he got the name of 'Silverside' from that or the white scar on his side or from his manner of cooking corned mate, I could not say. No better cook ever set fut in a ship's galley I've been told. Speakin' of cooks, I must ship a new one before we sail. The Kanaka lad now presidin' in our galley has a talent for spoilin' good food that amounts to a positive janius. Ye cud ram a handful of his pease into a muzzle-loader and kill a grizzly bear. And as for stewin' tr'ripe, I thought one day he'd got hould of some o' the squares of sail-cloth we use wuth sand for scourin' the oars and the like.”

“Do you think that Fairfax's wife and daughter are still in the Pacific?” I asked.

“I do. I have been thinkin' of a tale that was told me eighteen months ago by a felly that got lost after a week of bad weather, comin' from the Marquesas. He did not know just where he was, having got no sight for a week, and one day sightin' a small island he put in for fresh food and information. 'Twas a perilous entrance, he said—two reefs runnin' almost parallel, and the openin's narrow. But seein' green water right into the lagoon he tackled it, and there he found a schooner at anchor, and back in the pandanus grove was a snug bungalow and a wattle hut or two, and that was all. The schooner he recognised as belongin' to Gaston Berdou; so he went alongside to be told that the Frinchman was off on the other side of the island and wud not be back 'til night, so he went ashore and was met by the most beautiful gurrul, white and with golden hair, and eyes the colour of dark amber. Then an older woman came out, and she was beautiful, too, but dark as the night, with black, curly hair undher a flowin' scarf. She tould him they were the two sisters of Berdou, livin' there in peace and quiet away from the worruld, and she gave him some fruit and vegetables and fowls, but did not press him to stay. So back he went aboard and stopped the night, and the next day went aboard Berdou's schooner to ask him where he was. Berdou tould him, and he went out, the weather bein' still overcast, but three days later when he got a sight he was miles and miles off his reckonin'. Now, from his description of the woman, I would say that she was the Fairfax wife, Therese, and the gurrul his daughter.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“For one thing, docthor, when next I met Berdou, after hearin' the tale, I asked him how were his sisters. 'I have no sisters,' says he. Then, the ages would fit thim two. Now Berdou was here three days ago and left for Auckland, and in my opinion we can do no better than to follow him there. When he knows our errand, 'tis more than likely he will tell us what we wish to know. At any rate, 'tis worth the tryin'.”

I quite agreed with Connor, and was anxious to be off as soon as possible, but he was unwilling to go until he had shipped an efficient cook. So a little later we went ashore, Connor to look for a cook, and I to get my luggage, it being understood that we were to sail for Auckland the following day.

III.

Connor came aboard rather late, while I was engaged in stowing my effects and arranging my berth. He seemed hot and rather out of temper.

“Cooks are scarce in Apia as sailors in paradise,” said he. “I cud find nothing but a naygur, and he was not clean. Presarve me from a cook that is not clean, especially in a war'rm climate. I have two fellys now combin' the beach, lookin' for a clean cook. Belike they will find one when it is too late.”

“We dined ashore that night, returning aboard rather late. The following morning, as we were getting ready to go in again to renew the search for a cook, we saw a shore boat putting out for the schooner. It came alongside, and we looked down to see in the stern sheets a big-framed man in white drill which was clean but unpretentious. As he looked up something in his face struck me as familiar, and the next instant I recognised him as the stoker, the sight of whom had given Captain Fairfax such a turn.

“Well?” said Connor interrogatively.

“I heard you wanted to ship a cook, sir,” said the man, and his voice, though low in pitch, had a smooth and oily quality which was not pleasing.

“Y'are properly informed,” said Connor. “D'ye know of one?”

“I'd like the billet myself, sir,” said the man.

Connor stared at him in surprise.

“Y' look more like a Cook's tourist than the article itself,” he commented. “However, looks are sometimes deceevin'. Can ye cook?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then come aboard and cook,” said Connor.

The man gave his native boatman a coin and came over the side carrying in his hand a small bundle. He was tall and gaunt, smooth-shaven, with cavernous, chocolate-coloured eyes which were strangely mottled, high cheek bones, jaws which were wide, though not heavy, and a pointed chin. Nose and mouth were of the Coptic type. The fellow rather suggested, in fact, the male figures to be found in Egyptian designs, and impressed one as more interesting than attractive. Indeed, I was conscious of some odd, repellant quality. Connor was similarly affected, as I could tell from the narrowing of his shrewd gray eyes and the harsh expression of his mouth.

“Where did you work last?” he asked.

“I was a fireman on the Australia, sir. The chief discharged me yesterday because I left the ship without leave when we were in Honolulu.”

Connor's bushy brows lifted.

“A fireman, is it?” said he. “Well, then you should at least know how to keep the fire a-goin' in the galley stove while ye're a cookin' dinner, which was more than the last one did. His intellect was not up to the strain of cookin' and firin' at the same time. Bein' on the beach, I suppose that wages are no objec'?”

“Whatever you think I'm worth, sir,” said the man.

“All right,” said Connor, “and I suppose you can lend a hand on deck if need be?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now.... What is your name?”

“Jones, sir.”

“Well then, Jones, as you seem to know yer business, just look over the galley and see if you have the gear to give your talents full swing. There'll be stores a-comin' aboard this mornin', and as soon as they are stowed we'll be clearin' for Auckland.” He glanced at the man's bundle. “Now take your trunk below and turn to.”

The cook saluted and turned away. Connor looked at me, questioningly.

“A quare duck,” he said. “Came out on your ship, docthor?”

“Yes,” I answered. “He's telling the truth. I remember that the chief was sore because he slipped ashore at Honolulu. No doubt he kept him on because he was a good fireman, and there was no one to fill his place. As soon as he got what he wanted he fired him.”

Our stores came aboard a little later, when we weighed anchor and put to sea. Our dinner that day was a wonder. I doubt if one could have got a better meal in the Pacific. Connor, who liked good eating, was tremendously pleased.

“The felly is a Cordong Bloo,” said he, as he tucked away his curried chicken and rice. “Niver have I tasted the like, unless it was years ago at the old Hotel de France in Tahiti. I mind there used to be a dish of just this flavour, and it made you glad you had not died when you were a baby. 'Twas the specialty of the maisong. Now think of a man that can cook like that stokin' the fires of a liner. I will double his pay. I will triple it; quadruple it....” He stirred a little chutney into his rice. “Instid of five dollars a month he shall have twenty.”

When we reached Auckland we found that nothing had been seen of Gaston Berdou. Connor wired to different ports of New Zealand, but without success.

Aboard the Favourite everything had run as smooth as oil. Connor's native crew were cheerful and willing, and Jones continued to fatten us on such fare as Connor swore could not be had at the Grand Hotel in Yokohama. As for the cook himself, he continued to be more or less of an enigma, though one thing was very plain, and this was that the man in addition to his other talents was an excellent sailor. Working around Cape Maria van Dieman, we caught a nasty squall off the land which jibed the mainsail, and had it not been for the quickness of Jones, who had heard the jar when the boom tackle carried away, and sprang at in time to cast off the back-stay runner, the chances are that we would have been put to the expense and delay of shipping a new main boom, or possibly the mainmast itself might have gone.

“'Tis a jewel of a cook,” said Connor. “Mind you, docthor, the felly has been to sea before, and he has sailed these seas before, as only this morning I overheard him throw a hot mouthful of Kanaka into Tomalu, because the boy lost his draw-bucket overboard when the squall struck us. This Jones is a man down on his luck, and one more used to the afther part of the ship than to the fr'ront ind of her.”

“Perhaps he knows Berdou, or Silverside,” I suggested.

“I'll ask him.” Connor raised his voice. “Jones,” he called.

The cook, who was in the waist cleaning a fine fish which he had just hooked over the side, for we were at anchor off the town, dropped his work, wiped his hands on his apron, and stepping aft, raised his hand in salute to the square cap which he had made of shelf paper.

“Yes, sir,” said he, turning his brown mottled eyes on Connor.

“Cooky,” said Connor, “do you know Silverside?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jones; “the New Zealand brand is very good, sir, but if you will let me select a few cuts in the market, I will corn it myself.”

Connor laughed outright. For my part I quite missed the joke, not knowing at the time that “silverside” was the popular British term for “corned beef.”

“All right, cooky,” said Connor good-naturedly. “We will lay in a stock to-morrow morning at the market.”

The cook went back to his work, and Connor turned to me with another laugh.

“'Twas an intelligent answer,” said he. “There's nothing to tickle the palate of a seafaring man like good corned mate, and a bit of cabbage and a few biled spuds. But as for the original Silverside, the chances are he would pison the stomach of a cannibal when you come to consider that avin John Shark will have none of him.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They do say that Silverside was blood brother to the shark family. He could swim with them as friendly as you and me walk down King Street. There are some men like that, though rare, just as there are men that dogs will not bite, and that the meanest man-killin' stallion will carry as patient and gentle as a Valparaiso moke will pack a bale of hides. I mind a story of how a hand fell off the staging of Fairfax's schooner in Sydney Harbour, where sharks swarm. They was one of the zebra breed, and made a lunge for him, when here comes Silverside kerplunk twixt the two av thim, and the shark sheers off puggin' up his nose like a man who thinks to ate hare and finds the head of a cat on his dish.”

“You never saw Mrs. Fairfax,” said I, thoughtfully.

“No. But I have talked with boys that have. Lovely as a tropic night she was, with a black squall gatherin' to windward. She was scarce more than a child when your riverind dad—Heaven rest his sowl!—whaled 'big devil Fairfax' into marryin' her. Sixteen years she may have been, but a big gurrul, they say, with the straight, strong figure of a supple lad, and big, dark eyes that bur'rned. Willie Teck, who sailed for awhile as supercargo with Fairfax before 'big devil' launched out on his own, told me that one time when they had been married perhaps six months, Fairfax gave him a passage from Nukahiva over to Faulai. He had taught the gurrul how to handle the schooner, and Willie says she brought the vessel in through the reefs with a fresh gale blowin', and Fairfax, mad drunk, up aloft howlin' false reports, tryin' to rattle her. Failin' to do this, he swung out from the spring-stay singin' psalms mixed up with blasphemy of his own invention, and wonderful. A nice man, him ... in hell.”

“And Silverside was always with them?” I asked.

“He was not far Some say he was in love with the gurrul; others that it was Fairfax that he served like a dog his master. I have a theory of me own. In the ould tales, when the divil walked abroad, he had rangin' round him what was called in thim days a 'familiar.' This might have been a harmless baste to most, though filled with hate for all but the masther and Mrs. Satan and the children. Such, I think, was Silverside, for I have talked with many who knew him, and never one that had a good word to say aught but his cookin', which, they do say, was flavoured a bit of brimstone. Yet never did I hear of his doin' harm to livin' soul or Kanakas.”

“Fairfax certainly hated him at the last,” said I.

“That is to be expected. Divils have no love for them that sarves thim. And Fairfax was sure the Tiapolo. 'Tiapolo Fairfax' the natives christened him, which, as you probably know, means 'big devil Fairfax.” Silverside was his Aitu, or under-divil.”

I sat for some minutes thinking of what he had told me, finally to ask:

“Then you think that probably this Gaston Berdou has run across them, and is in a measure their protector?”

“That is my idee,” said Connor. “Belike he is in love with the young gurrul, or the mother, or both. Bein' young and Frinch his heart is, no doubt, large enough to shelther the pair. I do not blame him if the felly I was speakin' of tould me true. I could do it myself. But there is no use in our growin' barnacles down here. Lave us make a run up to Suva and talk to Von Bulow. The Chinaman is a friend of mine. He will, no doubt, tell us something, and we will do the opposite. 'Tis the way to deal with Chinks.”

So off we started for Suva the following day, and made the run in thirteen days. The weather was still unsettled, for it was at the breaking up of the monsoon; but we arrived without accident, and found that the Chinese comprador, Von Bulow, as he called himself, had been to Apia, but was expected in a day or two on a small local steamer. Connor left word at the store that he wished to consult the comprador in the matter of a new suit of sails for the Favourite.

“That will bring him out aboard,” said he to me, “and since Fairfax is payin' the shot I'll e'en order some new rags for the old gurrul. For the sake of our faces we cannot be transpor'rtin' a pair of lovely heiresses on a packet of which the mainsail looks like a crazy quilt, and the forestaysail like the seat of poor Mick's pants.”

The little steamer came in two days later, and that same afternoon a handsome whaleboat, with an awning and a native crew, slipped alongside with no more commotion than a swimming shark. The bow man hooked on and tilted the awning, when up the side there came a portly Chinaman, who was dressed as if for a banquet. His silk blouse was crusted with brocade, the design picked out in gold thread, buttons of hand-carved mother-of-pearl. The usual divided pantaloons showed only a few inches of their length under his heavy, cream-coloured skirt, of which the edges were crusted with gold embroidery to match the blouse. Over the blouse itself was a waistcoat of very thin and beautiful velours, almost mauve in shade, and fastened by buttons of carved, antique ivory. His stockings were of cream-coloured silk, and the padded shoes richly embroidered. From under the round, black-silk mandarin's cap his queue, skilfully plaited out with waxed-silk thread, hung straight down between his shoulders, the last four inches trailing.

Connor got up and walked amidships to welcome his guest while I remained under the quarter-deck awning. I was rather amused at Connor's extreme politeness, but understood that his deference was less due to the wealth and commercial importance of his guest—for Von Bulow was said to be enormously rich—than to the desire to please him, and possibly get some information which might help us in our quest.

Smiling and twinkling and nodding, as if at some pleasant thought, Von Bulow walked aft with Connor, who formally introduced us. The Chinaman smiled happily, and gave me a hand that felt like a pan of fresh, warm dough. His face was bland, smooth, without a single line of expression, but from under the rounded brows there twinkled a pair of exceedingly shrewd and alert eyes. It was as though the real personality, the actual intelligence, were disassociated from the big material bulk; rattling around inside, as one might say, and peering out through the slits in the waxen face. His speech was another surprise, for his voice was pleasantly modulated, and his English quite perfect.

“I am very glad to meet you, Doctor Ames,” said he. “I knew your father quite well, and I honour his memory.”

I thanked him, and presently we began to talk of different things. I told him that I hoped a little later to take up my father's work, but that I was anxious to extend it into Melanesia, as I felt that the Polynesians were pretty well supplied with missionaries of all kinds, and also, being a higher race, ethnologically, were really less in need of civilising influences. Von Bulow smiled and nodded. Had he known that the civilising influence which I longed to exert on the inhabitants of a certain island of the Solomon group was that to be effected by a case of rifles in the hands of men who understood their use, he might have chuckled also.

“I see that you share your honoured father's views,” said he. “I sincerely trust that you may not share his fate.”

In the roundabout manner with which one conducts business with an Oriental, the conversation got around to the schooner, and the question of a suit of sails. Connor stepped below and brought up his list of measurements, which Von Bulow copied in his tablets, promising to figure the matter out and send over his estimate.

“Perhaps you might also be in need of a few stores,” suggested the comprador.

“Ah, yes,” said Connor. “I was near forgetting.” He raised his voice and called to one of the Kanakas to tell the cook to bring his store list. “Speakin' of cooks,” said he, “we are blessed with a wonder,” and he told of how we had secured Jones at Apia. The Chinaman listened, smiling, and it seemed to me that his eyes twinkled more brightly than ever. “Never,” said Connor, “was there his ayqual ... unless, perhaps, 'twas Silverside, that used to sail with Dan'l Fairfax. Myself, I never ate his cookin', but, accordin' to them that have, the felly was a prince of cooks. By-the-bye, whativer became of Silverside?”

“I don't know what has become of Silverside,” said Von Bulow, leaning back in his chair, “but I suppose you have heard of what happened to Captain Fairfax?”

“No ... and what was that?” Connor asked.

“He was found strangled in his bed in his hotel at Honolulu,” said Von Bulow.

“Strangled,” cried Connor, leaning forward. “What, murdhered, d'ye mean?”

“That is what I heard at Apia. It was the same night of his arrival.” He looked from one to the other of us with his bright, inquiring eyes. “Did you ever meet Captain Fairfax, Dr. Ames?” he asked.

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“There was a swift snarling order, and the next second they were on me like a band of furious apes.”

“We came out on the same ship,” I answered. “He introduced himself to me the first night, and I had some conversation with him. He was a very ill man. The assassin might have spared himself the trouble. I doubt if Fairfax would have lived another month. He had been having repeated fainting attacks, and was in a very bad way.”

“And have they caught the murderer?” asked Connor.

“Not to my knowledge....”

The conversation was interrupted by Tomalu, one of the native hands, who brought the store list and laid it on the broad arm of Connor's wicker deck chair.

“Well, well ...” said he, before taking it up. “A bad business, that. To think of stranglin' a dyin' man. It sounds like some ould grudge. I wonder, now, where I could find a newspaper tellin' of the crime....”

“Paul Atkins has all the papers on file over at his pub,” said Von Bulow. “No doubt you could find an account of the unfortunate circumstance over there. Might I see your store list, captain? I am rather pressed for time.”

“Sure,” said Connor, and handed me the list. “Just glance through it, docthor,” said he, “and see if there is anything to add. Well, well ... strangled...” and he drew down his bushy eyebrows and fell into a study.

I ran my eye over the list, scarcely seeing what was written there, my mind being full of the news which I had just heard. I was about to hand it over to Von Bulow, when my attention was caught by a faint thumb-mark on the margin. It was scarcely more than perceptible, and I doubt that I would have noticed it but for a faint, crescent-shaped space in the very centre of the imprint. As it was, I gave the matter no thought, but handed the list to Von Bulow without comment. Like Connor, my entire attention was focussed on the crime of which we had just heard.

Von Bulow took the list and studied it attentively, then rose to his feet.

“May I keep this list, captain?” he asked, smiling, and as I glanced at him I noticed for the first time that his round face did actually have a certain amount of expression. “It will save me the trouble of copying it, and I will return it to you with the goods.”

“Sure sure,” said Connor, rousing himself from his meditation. “Had the papers any theory as to this murdher, Mr. Von Bulow?”

“I have not seen the papers,” said the Chinaman, glancing from Connor to myself. “I heard the news indirectly in Apia. After all, it is not surprising. Captain Fairfax was a man who had a great many enemies. They tell me that in the latter years of his life he made a very large fortune, in Alaska, I believe.'”

“He had a wife and daughter here in the islands,” said Connor. “Have you ever heard tell of thim?”

“No,” said Von Bulow. “But I doubt if they are still in the Pacific. Fairfax deserted them years ago, I believe.”

“Gaston Berdou was a friend o' the family,” said Connor, musingly. “Is he still about?”

“Yes,” answered the Chinaman. “Captain Berdou comes to Suva from time to time. About the sails, captain; are you in any great hurry? And where would you like them delivered? I will probably have them made in my lofts at Apia. Will you call for them there, or shall I have them forwarded?”

“I'd like them as soon as might be, always provided that the estimate comes within me means,” said Connor, with a grin. “And as I see that you are in a hurry, I will not detain you longer, Mr. Von Bulow.”

The comprador smiled and made an apologetic gesture with his hands.

“Thank you,” said he. “As I am just back from Apia there are a good many matters that require my attention.”

And with several smiles and twinkles and ducking little bows he made his way to the ladder, Connor escorting him to the side.

IV.

When Von Bulow had gone Connor returned to where I was sitting and flung himself into his own chair.

“Yon haythen Chink knows a lot,” he growled. “In the first place, he says that he has heard nothing of Silverside, and the Christian translation of that is that he has a good idea of where the felly is this very minute. In the second place, he says that in his opinion Fairfax's widda and daughter have left the Pacific, which means he thinks that they are still here. And in the third place, he made no answer to my remark about Berdou knowin' something about thim, which is to say that his own mind is not made up sufficient on that p'int to warrant a desayvin' answer, pro or con. We have much to learn from the haythen Chinee.”

“Why should he want to be so secretive ... or deceive us?” I asked.

“A Chinaman never gives something for nothing, docthor. More than that, it may be in his mind that by waitin' a bit a reward may be offered for the missin' pair. All is fish that comes to Von Bulow's net. Now, Fairfax did not offer a reward because he felt that if he did t'would be Silverside who would earn it, and hatin' the man he cud not bear to profit him. I am not sure but 'twould be wise to tell the Chink our object and take him into partnership. But let us wait a bit. I hate to squandher money on the rich, especially when he is a Chinaman. Lave us go ashore to Paul's place and read about this murdher. And there's another lie. I'll bet that Von Bulow has peroosed all that was written on the painful subject.”

It was then about half-past four. I went below to shift into some fresh clothes preparatory to going ashore, and had just completed the change when I heard an impatient exclamation from Connor, who was waiting for me on deck. A moment later he leaned down to the opening of the skylight and said:

“There's what comes of bein' a jude, docthor. Now we are thrapped. Here comes a visitin' party from the shore; Jim Forsyth, of the Kilahni over beyond, and ould Sartoris and that dhrunken little fule Maginnis, who is agent at Puné for the Bambergers. There is still another. The boat is loaded, and so are the passengers from the noise they do be makin'. It is disgustin'.”

“Come below and leave word that you are not at home,” said I.

“They have seen me. A man can be blind dhrunk and yet see a chance of gettin' blinder. Besides, they would come aboard anyhow and gut the ship of rum. 'Tis cheaper to stand by our guns. Also you will have a chance of studyin' some Pacific types. They are now so rare that a man has to go into a bar-room to find one. But Forsyth and Maginnis are old timers, and might help us on our quest.” He raised his voice. “Cookie?”

There was no response. Connor called again, and a moment later a weak voice: answered from forward, “Yes, sir?”

“What ails ye?” I heard Connor demand, brusquely. “Are ye ill?”

He strode away forward and I did not hear what followed, but presently, as I went on deck I caught a glimpse of Jones, in pyjamas, with a towel around his head, backing down through the hatch. From close aboard rose a tumult of cheerful hails, and here came a shore-boat pulled by two Kanaka rowers, the stern sheets filled with a noisy party. Connor, who was striding toward the head of the ladder to welcome our jubilant guests, looked at me with a wry grin and a shrug.

“Here's the cook got a chill and fayver just when I need him to lend a hand,” said he, “and this scrub, Sammy, cannot carry a glass without spillin' the contents, often down the outside of your neck and often down the inside of his own. 'Tis revoltin'. I fear the cook has not good health. He is green in the gills.”

“I'll take a look at him,” said I, and went forward to where Jones berthed, leaving Connor to, welcome the visitors. I found Jones in his bunk, his face and head wrapped up in a wet towel.

“It's neuralgia, doctor,” said he, in an unsteady voice. “Once a month or so I get an attack like this, and while it lasts I'm no good for anything. It will pass in a few hours.”

“I'll get you something to ease the pain,” said I, and started aft. The guests were scrambling aboard, and I was obliged to stop and be introduced. As Connor had said, they were in various stages of intoxication, which was the result, as I soon learned, of Captain Forsyth's departure for Apia that same night, en route for England, where, it appears, he had fallen heir to a title and some estates.

“Dis is yust a little good-bye to Sir Chames,” said Captain Muller, who was the fourth man whom Connor had failed to recognise, and who proved to be the genial skipper of a small trading schooner which he owned, Incidentally he was the only one of the party who appeared to be quite sober.

I excused myself, saying that the cook was sick and I would return as soon as I had given him some medicine. When I rejoined the group our mess boy was serving gin and whiskey, and the quarter-deck looked as if the schooner were afire. I drew up a chair between Sir James Forsyth, a lean, hard-looking Englishman, and Maginnis, who was an Australian from Palmerston, and, unlike most of the colony, small and ratty and ferret-faced.

“Connor tells me that you're the son of my old friend, John Ames ... or 'Rev. Cap'n Jack,' as we used to call him,” said Forsyth, drawing down his long chin a trifle and speaking in that high-palated voice which Americans are apt to associate with the English nobility. Just then it was a trifle exaggerated perhaps, and his tone was one of excessive dignity, accompanied with a hiccough or two, such as a man is apt to use when he feels that he is drunk, but declines to admit it. “Your father gave us all a new idea in regard to missionaries. I doubt if ever a man possessed so many friends in the Islands.”

“Right,” said little Maginnis, “but 'e 'ad 'is enemies, tu.”

“Oh no, Teddy,” Sir James expostulated.

“Yes 'e 'ad,” said Maginnis, stubbornly; “and that's sayin' nothin' agenst 'is memory. No man could do wot 'e done and not myke enemies. I could nyme some nymes...” and he took a sip of his gin.

“Who, for instance?” I asked.

“Well, for one, there was Sandy Cullom. A 'ard nut, Sandy. Your father 'ad 'im jacked up right over 'ere in Apia, and only for Von Bulow...”

“Shut up, Teddy,” said Sir James, pleasantly. “No scandals. Cullom's quite a friend of mine.”

“Well, then,” retorted Maginnis, “you must know what a rotter 'e is, Jim. Seal poachin', which is all right, of course, and nigger stealin' and the like. But wot I carn't stand is a white man that turns agenst 'is own race. 'E got the chiefs to put a taboo on young Wilkins, and they do say that 'e armed the niggers on Ulap, and...”

“Dere, dere ...” interrupted Muller, who was listening to the conversation. “You haf no proof. I do not like Cullom but I don't t'ink he vould arm dose Melanesian cannibals to murder vite volks. You should not trink, Teddy, or hold your gin mitout spillin' bad tinks.”

The conversation grew confused for a few minutes, Maginnis spitting with Muller and Sir James stroking his long, red moustache with an occasional gulp. Then, said Connor, who had been expressing his sorrow that owing to the sudden illness of his cook he could not ask all hands to stop for dinner:

“By-the-bye, speakin' of cooks, did any of you boys ever run foul of Silverside, that used to cook aboard poor Fairfax's ould Kaiulani?”

It was like throwing down a challenge to fight at an Irish fair. Yes, all four of them had known Silverside, and not one but scored him. Yet, when I asked what the man had ever done, nobody could find an answer. Sartoris said that the man was not canny; Sir James admitted that he affected him as did a cat, and he hated cats. Maginnis merely shrugged and said: “'E was a rum 'un,” but old Muller raised the ridges where his eyebrows should have been, for he hadn't a hair on his head above his upper lip, and said, oracularly:

“Mark my vords; it vas Silverside killed Vairvax.”

This provoked another storm of argument, Maginnis being inclined to side with Muller, and the others maintaining that such a man as Silverside had not the nerve to strangle a cat, and that Fairfax had not been murdered at all, and that the blue marks on his throat had been made by his own hands during the death agony.

“That might be so,” Maginnis assented. “I was with old Pop Ashwell wen 'e cashed in, and I mind 'ow 'e gripped at 'is throat, tryin' to get air. W'en I come to recollect, Silverside 'adn't the 'eart of a 'are. If there was a pig to be killed, 'e'd give one of the Kanakas a plug o' tobacco to do the stickin'. No 'eart, 'e 'adn't.”

“He vas not afraid to swim mit sharks,” said Muller.

“That was 'cause of 'is 'h'amulet,” said Maginnis.”

“His what?” I asked.

“'Is h'amulet. Silverside 'ad a charm 'e wore 'round 'is neck. Sort of a scapula, like. I dunno w'ot was in it, but 'e told me once that so long as 'e wore it no shark would try to do 'im 'arm.”

The conversation soon switched from Silverside to the wife and daughter of Fairfax, and the conjectures were numerous and often absurd. It was generally admitted that Berdou might know something about them, and the personality of the Frenchman coming under the guns of the party, he was voted a very mysterious individual, and almost criminally unsociable.

“A chawming fellow to meet,” said Sir James, “but deuced elusive. Never knew him to ask a soul aboard his vessel, and just what he does with her I never could find out. He's always going after a cargo, or has just taken a cargo somewhere, but I never did see her when she was deep. I know that he does carry a little copra now and then, but nothing to speak of.”

“Know wot I think?” cried the garrulous Maginnis. “It's pearls. Gaston Berdou 'as found a pearl island, somew'eres. And I'll bet you wot you like that Von Bulow could throw some light on the subject, tu.”

This brought the talk around to pearls, and from that to trade in general, until the shadows began to lengthen, and Connor, getting up, declared that it was time to think of dinner, and that as our cook was out of action there was nothing for it but to go ashore. Then, Sir James, speaking rather thickly, invited the whole party to dine with him at the hotel; so off we went in our whaleboat and spent a rather hilarious evening.

Connor and I managed to get away from the others at about ten, declining to make a night of it. So out we went under the low, brilliant stars, and Connor, taking me by the elbow, turned our steps down toward the beach.

“We will look into Paul's place,” said he, “and see what the papers have to say of Fairfax's death. Several thoughts have been rattlin' 'round in my head, but I will say nothing until we have learned more in regyard to the matther.”

Turning down a side street, or lane, rather, we came presently to a large, ramshackle building, from the inside of which there issued the sound of talk and laughter, and the sing-song whine of a gramaphone intoning nasally:

“Is London like it used to be,
Is the Strand still there ...”

Connor led the way in, and we found a gathering composed of whites, half-breeds, and Kanakas, and a few rather pretty half-caste girls, all of whom seemed to be fraternising most sociably. At the end of the big room there was a bar, behind which there bustled about a middle-aged man with a red, bloated face, burly shoulders, and a white scar across his left cheek. He looked up as we entered.

“Hello, Paul,” said Connor.

“Strike me blind if it ain't Billy Connor. Ello, Billy....” He lurched out from behind the bar and thrust out a hand like a bunch of overripe bananas. “'Ow's things, Billy?”

“'Tis little they change, matey-o. There's still wather in the say and rum ashore. You're lookin' fine, Paul.”

This last was a flagrant untruth, for it struck me that Paul must be well along with Bright's and liver complications. But his eyes were bright and hard, and shone with that false good humour which often masks cruelty and deceit, and gives the owner an underserved reputation for bluff and hearty good nature.

“My friend, Dr. Ames, Paul,” said Connor.

I shook hands with Paul, when he and Connor exchanged a few words, which were interrupted by the entrance of some new arrivals. Connor and I sat down at a table and ordered some beer, which was served by a good-looking half-caste woman who was, as Connor told me, Paul's wife. The place was rather decently fitted out, with an English billiard table, and in the corner a file of newspapers—British, Australian, French, and American. Connor got up presently and strolled over to look at them, I following.

“There's the Honolulu paper, just come in to-day, Billy,” Paul sung out from the bar. “All the latest developments of the Fairfax case. You knew divil Fairfax, didn't ye?”

“Sure,” said Connor. “I knew him well. A sthrong man.”

He brought the paper back to our table, and we glanced at it together. In big headlines was printed:

“POLICE SAY FAIRFAX WAS MURDERED.

“CLUE PREVIOUSLY WITHHELD NOW MADE PUBLIC.”

But I scarcely noticed the leaders, for in the middle of the column was the reproduction of the impression of a thumb, with the inscription beneath:

“LOOK FOR A MAN WITH A THUMB-MARK LIKE THIS.”

I leaned back with a gasp, for in the middle of the mark was a crescent-shaped space, the arc of the crescent about the same length as the diameter of a lead pencil.

Connor noticed my movement and looked at me inquiringly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Captain,” said I, “did you notice the thumb-mark on the margin of the store-list which you gave to Von Bulow?”

“No,” he answered; and his bushy brows came lower.

“It is identical with this,” I answered, tapping the print.

Connor laid down the paper and stared straight in front of him.

“I am not surprised,” said he, presently. “To tell the truth, docthor, I was beginnin' to have me doubts of Jones. Then he is Silverside?”

“And the murderer of Daniel Fairfax.” said I.

Connor's face hardened. “I am not surprised,” he repeated, more slowly.

For a moment neither of us spoke, Then said Connor:

“Was the mark on the list plain? I did not see it. I am gettin' long-sighted. 'Tis a habit of advancing age.”

“It was the faintest smear,” I answered. “I would not have seen it myself but for the way the light struck on the shine of the paper. There must have been a little grease on his thumb.”

“And Von Bulow has it,” said Connor.

“Do you think that he will discover it?” I asked.

“Trust him. A Chinese business man has an eye for a thumb-mark, like a bank cashier for a signature. More than that, he saw it at once. 'Twas for that he wanted the list. Now he has Silverside's life undher his own thumb. At this minute he 1s studyin' how it may profit him. You will see. When the stores come aboard the list will have been mislaid. From this hour Silverside is his slave.”

“He belongs to the law,” said I.

“Thrue ... but we nade the felly. There is also, of course, the off-chance that Von Bulow has not seen it. Will ye wait for me here, docthor?”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To look up Von Bulow. I will ask for the list, sayin' I wish to see if something was not overlooked. If it is not too late we must kape this thing in our own hands. Wait for me here, docthor. I will not be long.”

“All right,” I answered.

Connor got up and went out, and I turned to the paper and read the account carefully through. It stated that a revelation made by the police department within the last hour had completely changed the aspect of the case as previously determined. In a resumé of the tragedy it was narrated how Fairfax had arrived at the hotel in a very precarious state of health and had immediately sent for a lawyer and made his will, which testament, although given to the police, was not yet to be made public. Nothing in this will, it was admitted, offered any motive for the crime or threw any light upon the identity of the possible assassin, At about nine o'clock on the night of the crime, Captain Fairfax had received a visit in his room from the doctor of the Australia, the liner on which he had that morning arrived, and a Doctor Eames (they had misspelled the name), a passenger bound for Samoa. About half an hour after his visitors had departed the nurse had arrived, to find the patient comfortable and in good spirits. The nurse went down to the kitchen at midnight to warm some milk for the patient, and on returning about twenty minutes later found the patient dead. The bed showed indications of a slight death struggle.

The police were at once notified, and the coroner took the case in charge. An examination of the corpse showed the prints of fingers on the throat of the corpse, and a slight hemorrhage from the mouth and nose. First theories pointed to murder, but these finally gave way to the supposition that in the final struggle for air the patient had gripped at his throat, losing his hold with waning consciousness. This idea seemed to be substantiated by the fact that the hands of the defunct were slightly blood-stained.

This night, however, the chief of police had sent for the representatives of the Press and announced that, failing to find the slightest clue, as the result of certain knowledge withheld he had decided to make this information public, and to state that in the opinion of the police department Captain Fairfax had met his death through foul play. An astute inspector, named Bigby, had discovered a bloody thumb-mark on the rim of the French shutters. This mark had been photographed the following day by the official police photographer, and was reproduced below ... and there followed the usual surmise and conjecture, and the attention of the reader called to the peculiar, crescent-shaped blank in the imprint, which must have been the result of a cicatrix on the ball of the assassin's thumb.

I finished the article and was deep in thought when Connor came in, his small, grey eyes fairly snapping.

“Did you get it?” I asked.

“I did. It is here....” And he drew out the list and laid it on the table. “Now lave me put on me specks and show me the thumb-mark.”

I picked up the paper and held it to the light, slanting it back and forth in the effort to catch the greasy imprint. Connor, breathing hard, was staring over my shoulder. Suddenly, at a certain angle, the faint lines of a man's thumb appeared on the margin of the paper. I looked closer, and Connor, whose eyes were keen at close range with the aid of his spectacles, gave a grunt.

“I see it...” said he, in a hoarse whisper. “But where is the crescent? And look close, docthor ... the lines are not the same. D'ye mark that little whirlpool in the centre, where the scar shud be? And the lines do not run together above as they do in the picthure.”

He was right. The two prints were certainly not the same. Not only that, but the outline of the mark was different, the one on the newspaper having a wavy curve on one side which the faint grease print on the store-list lacked.

Connor gave me a reproachful look.

“Come now, docthor,...” said he.

I shrugged, then looked at him with a smile.

“Von Bulow is astute,” said I. “He has been just one think ahead of us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” I answered. “He banked on the off-chance of just what has happened. Perhaps he saw me slant the list to the light, and afterwards, when he discovered the imprint, guessed that when I saw the newspaper I would be struck by the facsimile. Now, Von Bulow does not know for sure that we suspect Silverside, but he does not want to put any proof in our hands, so he wiped off the mark with a little benzine and made another. He needs Silverside.”

“But what's to prevent our clappin' the felly in irons?” Connor demanded.

I rose to my feet. “Simply that while we are sitting here,” I answered, “Von Bulow will probably send a boat after him, and Silverside will be afraid to refuse to go. He's alone on the schooner.”

Connor jumped up with an oath. “I believe y'are right,” he exclaimed. “Ye have the raysoning of a diplomat. 'Tis admirable.”

We said good-night to Paul and hurried out. Our boat was waiting, so we jumped aboard, and presently the schooner loomed darkly ahead of us. As we drew close aboard we saw a boat lying to the ladder, and the cook in the act of coming over the side.

“What boat is that?” rasped Connor. A guttural voice answered in “pidgin English”:

“One piecy man go longshore.”

“One piecy man stops here,” answered Connor, harshly. “Be off, ye scuts.” And he reached down for an oak stretcher. The boat shoved clear, and as she came out of the shadow I noticed that she was of a peculiar design, with a long, overhanging bow and almost flat-bottomed. The men at the oars looked like Chinese coolies. They shoved clear without a word, and headed in for the shore.

“You were right, docthor,” said Connor, under his breath. “That is a sampan from this chunk of a pearlin' yawl belongin' to Von Bulow which is lyin' outside of us a bit. To-morrow morning early we will put to sea, and Silverside can have his choice of takin' us to the widdy Fairfax, or we takin' him to gaol.”

We clambered aboard and saw the cook walking forward.

“Jones,” called Connor, sharply, “what is the meaning of this? Why were ye thryin' to go ashore without permission?”

“I couldn't stand the pain in my head, sir,” answered the cook in his hollow, toneless voice, “so I hailed the sampan to go ashore after some laudanum.”

“Docthor,” said Connor, “can ye give Jones a dose of laudanum?”

“Yes,” I answered. “There's some in my medicine case.”

“Then give him a slug, if ye will be so kind. He is in pain.”

“All right,” I answered, and went below. Connor followed me.

“Give the felly a dose that will keep him quiet for a few hours, and mind that he takes it,” said Connor. “You were right, lad. Ye have a top-piece like a hammerhead shark, 'tis that long. I am old and none too sober. It is disgustin'.”

I measured out the dose and took it forward. Silverside took it with a toneless expression of thanks.

“Thank you, sir,” said he; “I hope that the captain is not angry.”

“Oh, no,” I answered. “I told him that a man suffering from neuralgia was scarcely to be blamed for seeking relief. Now go to sleep. That ought to quiet the pain.”

“I hope so, sir,” answered the cook.

When I went aft Connor, cigar in mouth, was pacing the quarter-deck.

“Did ye give him a good slug, docthor?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “Kilahni will have to get our breakfast to-morrow morning.”

“He hesitated, then with a savage grin whipped out his knife.”

“Good,” he grunted. “'Tis little breakfast we'll be wantin' afther all the swill we have fed our insides this night. Lave us tur'rn in. I am too old to dhrink.”

V.

The ship's clock in the cabin struck two bells, and I awoke gasping, with a dry mouth and throat and a thumping head. Although I had drunk very little, it was still a lot too much for a man not accustomed to drink at all.

It was hot below, and the combination of gin, champagne, liqueurs, and beer inside me made it seem ten times hotter. Opposite me, Connor was puffing and blowing like a grampus and muttering in his sleep. I swung my legs out of my bunk and sat up, holding my head with both hands, and swearing that it would be the last time that I would ever burn my comfort on the altar of good fellowship. Then I thought of the water monkey swung under the cabin skylight, and groping around in the dark I found it and drank about a gallon of the cool, sweet water.

A little refreshed, I decided to go on deck and sit there until I had cooled off and my pulses eased their hammering a bit; so up I stole barefooted and in pyjamas, and dropping on the quarter-bitts, folded my arms on the rail and rested my forehead on them. There was a faint land breeze, sweet with the odour of shrubs and flowers, and spicy with the smoke of balsamic woods. It was like a bath in its soft freshness after the stuffiness of the cabin; so soothing, that presently I dropped into a doze, a foolish thing to do, there in the tropic dampness.

I do not know how long I slept, but presently I roused under the impression that something was moving about in the water alongside. I listened for a moment, but as the noise was not repeated, I came to the drowsy conclusion that it must have been a fish, and dozed off again, presently to awake with a slight shiver.

There came a rustle behind me, and I looked around to see Connor standing at the head of the companion way, his arms in the air, yawning prodigiously. The yawn finished with a muttered curse, at which I gave a sleepy chuckle.

“Ho,” growled Connor, “so y'are takin' the dew cure for a head also. Ye shud know betther. 'Tis dangerous.”

“Not with your blood full of booze,” I answered. “A fever microbe would curl up, pickled, if he got into my system.”

“We are two fules,” said Connor. “What if we were to make sail and work it off. There is a bit of air comin' off the land.”

“That suits me,” I answered.

“Lave us see if we can wake the cook to make us coffee,” said Connor. “'Twill clear our heads ... and his own. I take no stock in the felly's neuralgy; 'twas a bluff to kape from fronting thim drunken visitors. bad cess to thim.”

This had already occurred to me, so I made no objection, but said that I doubted the man would be of much use with the drug that was in him.

“You cannot tell,” said Connor. “Like as not he is used to it.”

So we started forward, Connor pausing to kick the Kanaka watchman who was sleeping peacefully with his back against the foot of the foremast. I made my way to the cook's berth and groped about for a minute. The bunk was empty.

“He's not here!” I cried.

“What is that?”

“He's gone.”

“Gone, is it?” Connor turned furiously to the watchman. “Where's the cook, ye limb o' Satan?” he bawled. “Fetch me a lantern .... and quick!”

The frightened boy bolted off and got a lantern, and we made a thorough search. Not a sign of the cook could we find. Moreover, the white clothes which the man had worn on coming aboard were missing also. Connor and I stared at each other in dismay.

What immediately followed was chiefly of interest to the watchman, and when the sharp reproof was over Connor turned to me, panting.

“He has swum for it,” said he. “The divil has bundled his duds on his head and swum for it. Now what d'ye think o' that?”

I thought of the ripple in the water alongside which I had heard, but did not see fit to mention it. Connor was undoubtedly right.

“And him full o' dope,” growled Connor. “Come, docthor, this will not do. 'Tis bad enough to have had the felly aboard all this time without iver guessin' it was Silverside. But to let him give us the slip like this will never do. 'Tis childish.”

“What's to be done?” I asked.

Connor scratched his curly head. “There is a little steamer leavin' for Apia at daybreak,” said he. “Belike he will try to stow away aboard her. Or he may try to ship on the windjammer yonder. I will search thim both while you do a senthry go on the beach. He has not been long gone, and cannot be far.”

“Perhaps he has gone to Von Bulow,” I suggested.

“And run his head into a slave yoke? I think not. 'Tis Von Bulow he fears, not us. Von Bulow may or may not have sent the sampan to fetch him—I do not know. And there is no way of findin' out, for two of the boys are ashore on liberty, and the other two were waitin' for us in the boat, and the cook alone aboard. Perhaps 'tis as you say. Bulow may have sent for him and Silverside afraid to refuse to go. If we do not find him I will thry Von Bulow. But let us go.” And he told the watchman to call the other hand and get the dinghy ready to go ashore.

We tumbled into our clothes, and a moment later were pulling in for the shore. Half-way to the beach Connor muttered:

“We might have ar'rmed ourselves ... but no matter. If you should happen on him, tell the felly that his best chance lies with us, and that if he obeys ordhers we will not bethray him to the po-lice. No doubt he had his raysons for chokin' 'big devil Fairfax.' 'Tis a pity he was not choked long ago. He was not nice.”

There was nobody in sight on the beach when we landed. Said Connor to me:

“Take a wide beat up and down the beach, docthor, and watch for any boat puttin' off. As soon as it gets light, come back to the boat and wait for me. Mind your eye a bit, for there are some bad folk prowlin' around amongst these shacks and litther. Now I will be off.”

Ordering the two Kanakas not to leave the boat under pain of a severe mauling, he set off in one direction while I strolled away in the other, keeping under cover of whatever object offered, and stopping occasionally to listen and look about. At the end of an hour I found myself a good way down the beach, where a number of boats and canoes were hauled up. Four bells were struck on a ship at anchor some distance out, and the musical tones reached me faintly across the still water. A squad of British sailors belonging to a small gunboat came rollicking down and embarked in charge of a petty officer. A few flitting natives were prowling about, and from some of the shacks back of the beach came sounds of drunken revelry, and once a revolver shot followed by a clamour of voices. I stole over that way, but the row, whatever it was, appeared to have quieted down, though the babel of voices continued for some time. On a disreputable street which ran up diagonally from the beach, two native girls, their faces white with powder and bedecked with cheap jewellery, stopped to speak to me, swaying unsteadily on their feet, but, getting no answer, laughed and disappeared up an alley.

I turned my steps toward the far end of the beach again, and had almost reached the outlying skirts of the town when I heard behind me the paddling of many feet. Looking back I saw a number of dark figures blocking the narrow way, and as they passed a lighted window I saw the glare of the lamp reflected from bare, bronzed bodies. The little procession was coming rapidly, and as it approached I made it out to be composed of Chinese coolies, six or eight in number, and saw that four of them were carrying some white object which looked like the body of a man.

Right here the place seemed absolutely deserted, and the few straggling huts were dark and silent. It was on a sort of lane which ran parallel to the beach, and not more than fifty yards from the water's edge. I stood stock-still in the middle of the way, and as the group approached I saw that the leader was a tall, square-shouldered man in white trousers and pyjama coat which was open in the front showing his dark, naked body. He came up with an imperious gesture of his hand, as if to wave me aside, and in the paling starlight his fierce, Mongolian features looked savage and sinister. But I passed him with a glance, for my eyes were examining the inert figure in the hands of the coolies. It was a big-framed man, limp and inanimate, for his arms hung down, his hands trailing on the ground. With every step the head lolled from one side to the other, and as the white, glistening face was flung toward me I saw that it was Silverside.

“Stop there,” said I, sharply, and stepped in front of the porters. “Put that man down.”

The tall leader turned, his head dropping a little between his shoulders.

“Nev' mind,” said he, in a fierce, guttural voice. “Him one piecey captain. Velly dlunk. Take him on board. All 'light.”

He gave an order in Chinese, and the coolies attempted to crowd past. Alone and unarmed as I was, no doubt I did a foolish thing to interfere. But I was not going to see the man of all men whom I needed most carried off under my very eyes.

“Put him down,” said I, and planted myself in the way. “The man is my cook. I am looking for him.”

The leader swung on his heel and faced me, his savage face thrust almost against mine.

“You plenty fool ... plenty dam' fool,” he snarled. “Him piecey man, my boss. He dam' dlunk. S'pose you vamoose. No get hurt ... savvy?”

Another order, and the coolies surged ahead. Not stopping to figure out the result, I gripped the naked shoulder of the first, who had Silverside's feet, and flung him across the lane, so that he rolled into the ditch.

There was a swift, snarling order, and the next second they were on me like a band of furious apes. The leader sprang at me with wide arms, and I met him with a straight drive in the chest that sent him staggering back. Two others sprang in, clawing at me with wide fingers and writhing arms, one to get an upper-cut under the chin which rolled him over and over; and the other a swing on the side of the head which, although it glanced from his greasy skull, was enough to put him out of the fight. Then, from behind, a pair of arms went around my waist, and I felt a hot breath in my face. It reeked of onions, or garlic, or something of the sort, and drove me wild, but I managed to writhe around and get the fellow by the throat, then tore him off and drove his head against the head of another who was reaching for my knees.

Looking back, I see that I should have shouted, yelled with all my lungs, for we were surrounded by wattle huts, and the Fiji folk are brave and warlike, and loathe Chinese. But in the heat of the fight I never thought of crying out. I needed all my breath to dispose of the filthy vermin, and so fought on in silence. It never occurred to me either that not a weapon was being used, that the whole scrimmage was barehanded, though all of the coolies were no doubt armed.

It was quickly over; too quickly for credit to a man of my bone and sinew and a trained athlete. Afterwards I saw that I should have leaped clear, and got at them singly or in twos and threes, not en masse. But at the time the reek of their sweating, stinking bodies and the persistence of their gripping fingers sent me into a sort of fury, and I stood fast with feet planted and legs braced, tearing them off and slamming them down as they gripped me. If I had worn leather shoes I might have fought my way clear even then, but my feet were in canvas deck sandals, and I did not try to use them.

Worst of all, the coolies, after the first rush, were almost too close to strike, and although I got in a few jabs with my fists, they were shoves rather than blows. And then suddenly one of the devils got me by an ankle, jerked my foot from under me, and I was down with the pack on top of me. Before you could count seven they had my ankles bound, arms wrenched back, and I was rolled over with my face ground in the sand while they got a lashing between my elbows and another around my wrists. Then a dozen hands, as it seemed, were in my hair, on my ears, and I felt my neck creak as they twisted around my head, and some foul rag, ripped from a waist-cloth perhaps, was crammed into my mouth, sand and all, and knotted at the back of my head. The next second they had me off the ground, swaying off on a swinging trot down the beach.

“He lurched back, gripping at the edge of a bunk. 'Dr. Ames...' he cried, in his hollow voice.” Now, my father was a clergyman and a missionary, and his father was a clergyman and a doctor, and no doubt his father, who was, I believe, a farmer, was also a lay brother or deacon or something of the sort. My mother's family, a good old Puritan stock, were similarly gifted, and all were no doubt intolerant of ungodly neighbours and strong for the poor, benighted heathen. If these virtuous ancestors of mine, sleeping peacefully in old New England graveyards, could have heard the curses that were being strangled in my throat as my dear Oriental brothers scurried down the beach, they might have understood that, although you may dam a stream for a long time, the water will one day run over. I was fairly sick with fury, and it seemed as if my heart would burst. I was sobbing like a beaten schoolboy, and the tears were pouring out of my eyes. But, then, this was my first real fight. As Fairfax had shrewdly said, I had never before struck a man in anger, and it had seemed to me, while struggling with the coolies, that I had only just begun to live. And to think that it should end like this! Even as they lugged me along I was thinking bitterly to myself that an experienced fighter of my strength and activity and knowledge of how to use my fists, for I was a good boxer, would have won his way clear.

The coolies went forward swiftly on that peculiar swinging walk that is almost a run, their bodies working from the hips. Three of them had me, one under the arms, one by the belt, and another the feet. At the end of the lane they struck off diagonally across the beach, and presently we came to a big sampan which was hauled up clear of the wash, and two men guarding it.

Silverside was thrown aboard like a sack of grain, and I heard his head strike a thwart as he fell. My own treatment was more gentle, for they sat me in the stern sheets, then tumbled aboard and grabbed up their jointed oars. Once clear of the beach a lug sail was run up, and as the breeze had freshened just before the dawn we were soon gliding swiftly out with a ripple under the bow.

We were getting well off-shore when suddenly I saw a dark blotch against the starlit sky, now beginning to pale, with a smaller mass behind it. A thin cry quavered across the water, and was answered by the man who had the steering sweep of the sampan. I made out a black mass on the water, and a moment later discovered it to be a big, heavy yawl-rigged vessel, lying at anchor with main and mizzensails set, and her cable hove short. We ran past, then rounded under her stern, and as we did so the the sweet land breeze became suddenly tainted with a filthy, putrid odour. I knew the smell, and realised that the vessel was a pearl fisher.

The sampan shot alongside, and the coolies were up over the rail like so many apes. Silverside, still unconscious, or dead, for all I knew, was passed up swiftly and dropped on deck. Then a couple of jigs came dangling down, were quickly hooked into the beckets in the bow and stern transoms of the sampan, and she was hoisted aboard with me still lying in the bottom, my shoulders against the stern-sheets. As she landed on the deck of the yawl the tall Mongolian, who appeared to be the captain, stepped up and slipped off the gag.

“S'ppose you shut up, no get hurt,” said he, with a mildness of tone that surprised me. “Make lil' noise, get neck cut...” and he drew his finger across his throat.

“I keep quiet,” I answered. “Suppose you cast off my hands. Not feel velly good.”

He hesitated, then with a savage grin whipped out his knife, shoved me over by one shoulder, and drew the edge of his blade across the lashing. Next he cut the cords that bound my ankles.

“No be dam fool tly swim asha',” said he. “Plenty shock (shark) here, he velly hungly. Me no care...” And he walked away forward, leaving me still sitting in the sampan. The coolies had jumped from the whips to the windlass, and the anchor was already broken out, and while some of the crew hove it home, others ran up the jib and forestaysail, when the bows of the heavy, sluggish tub began to fall off, and a minute or two later we were standing out to sea.

I climbed stiffly out of the sampan and stood for a moment clinging to her gunnel, for my feet had lost all sensation from the tightness of the cords that had bound them. The crew were trooping aft to secure the sampan for sea, and as I stepped out of their way I almost stumbled over the body of Silverside, who was still lying where he had been thrown. Nobody paid the slightest attention to me, so I took Silverside by the shoulders and dragged him amidships, clear of the main-sheet, for we were square off before the wind, and if the mainsail had jibbed the man's body might have been caught in a bight of the sheet-rope, when he might easily have been killed or badly mutilated. Nobody noticed the act, so I leaned down and felt for his pulse. At first my numbed fingers were unable to feel the slightest flicker, but on pressing the carotid I got a faint throb. Also, on laying my hand on his chest, I found that he was breathing.

“He no dead, said a guttural voice over my shoulder. “Got plenty opium. Bimeby I fix 'im.”

Looking over my shoulder I saw the captain stooping over us. He seemed friendly enough; so I asked him where we were going and why he had taken me.

“S'ppose I leave you asha' (ashore),” said he. “Make plenty fuss, w'at? You plenty fool; no fight, no get shanghai. You fight plenty good. Knock um coolie galley west. Oh gawd...” And he gave a chuckle. After the blow I had landed on his chest he had himself taken no part in the scuffle, or my treatment might have been different. “We go find 'im piecey pearl. He know...” And he gave Silverside a prod with his sandalled foot. Him plenty bad man. You likee dlink?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“All light, hab got....” And he went aft and disappeared down the companionway, presently to return with a bottle of lager beer. I had wanted no more than a drink of water, for my throat was parched, and my mouth still gritty from sand with the lingering taste of the foul rag which had been stuffed into it. But here was an apparently friendly act, and not to be despised; so I thanked him, thumbed open the stopper and drank, first rinsing out my mouth.

But if the captain was inclined to be well-disposed to me, certainly he had no such sentiment towards the drugged wretch at our feet. Leaning down he first shook Silverside violently, then slapped him several times on either side of the face. Getting no response he dropped on his knees beside the prostrate body, and, taking the head in his two hands, pressed his thumbs against the upper rim of the eye sockets, compressing the supraorbital nerve. Silverside groaned, stirred, then went limp again.

“It is no use,” said I; then, relapsing into “pidgin English,” “Suppose he wake up? Too plenty opium. No savvy nothing.”

He nodded. “No hully,” said he. “Wake up bimeby. You like go below?”

“Yes. Plenty sleepy.”

“Come on....”

He led me to the companionway and below. The cabin was close, foul-smelling, and littered with diving apparatus. There were four bunks, two of them filled with helmets, hose and other paraphernalia. The third had a mattress, over which was a grass sleeping mat, and the fourth was the receptacle for a spare sail.

“I'll sleep here,” said I. And utterly exhausted, tumbled in on the sail and was almost instantly asleep.

VI.

When I awoke the sun was streaming down through the open hatch, and the yawl lounging heavily over the long surges. Very stiff and sore, I raised myself on one elbow and saw the Chinese captain sitting at the table busy with a big bowl of what looked to be fish and rice. He glanced up as I moved, and the busy chopsticks paused for a second.

“You sleep long time,” said he. “You hungly?”

“I could eat,” I answered.

He pointed at the bowl. “Velly good,” said he. “S'ppose you alle same chow.”

I swung out of the bunk and stood for a moment swaying with the heave of the vessel. My white clothes were in rags, but aside from a few scratches and bruised knuckles I was not hurt. The coolies' efforts had been not to maul, but merely to overpower me.

“Other man wake up?” I asked.

“He wake up, now go sleep again. He no good. You chow?”

“Pretty soon,” I answered. “Likee wash.”

He nodded and pointed to a draw bucket. I picked it up and went on deck. The sea was fairly smooth, with a long, even swell and a fresh breeze coming in abeam. At the wheel was a lean coolie whose face showed marks of my work, one eye being quite closed. He scarcely looked at me as I walked to the lee side and drew a bucket of water. Up forward a group of Chinamen were squatting around a big bowl, dipping into it with their fingers. They looked aft, nudging and chattering as I stripped to the waist and proceeded to bathe. I noticed with some satisfaction that most of them showed some trace of the scuffle of the night before: one chap having his head wrapped up in a wet, dirty cloth. At first I saw no sign of Silverside, but presently, happening to glance into the sampan, I saw him stretched out on the bottom, apparently asleep.

The captain came on deck as I was finishing my bath. Seen in the daylight he was a tall, powerful man, with Tartar features and a nose more beaklike than is often seen on a Chinese face. His features were cruel, savage and unregenerate, but held a very marked intelligence.

“You find plenty chow down below,” said he, agreeably enough. I nodded, and as I went down the ladder I heard a peculiar moaning cry. The captain, I decided, must be waking Silverside.

Rather to my surprise I found the food very palatable. It appeared to be a mixture of boiled rice mixed with salt fish and some sort of spice which suggested curry. There was a great quantity, and I was making a good breakfast when the hatch was darkened and Silverside came down. His face was colourless, and there were dark circles under his eyes, the pupils of which were still contracted to needle points from the action of the drug.

At sight of me, calmly breakfasting, his jaw dropped and he lurched back, gripping at the edge of a bunk.

“Dr. Ames...” he cried, in his hollow voice.

“Good morning, Silverside,” I answered. “How do you feel?”

He did not notice either the name nor my question. Passing his hand across his forehead in a dazed way he continued to stare at me.

“How did you get here, sir?” he asked.

“We missed you aboard and went in to look for you,” I answered. “While the captain was off searching the Apia boat I ran on to this crowd lugging you off, and tried to stop it ... with the result that you see,” I answered. “Sit down and have some food. It's not bad.”

“Thank you, sir,” said he, in a dazed way, and began to dip into the rice. For a moment he ate hungrily and in silence. Then said I:

“You'd have done better to have stopped aboard the Favourite, my friend.”

He looked up at me vacantly. “I didn't dare,” he mumbled. “Von Bulow sent for me and I had to go.”

“You are Silverside, aren't you?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And it was you who killed Captain Fairfax?”

A sudden glow seemed to spread over his pale, Magyar face. His fingers stopped half-way to his lips, and he stared at me with his odd, sightless-looking eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated. “It was I who killed Daniel Fairfax ... thank God.”

He fell to eating again, almost ravenously. Presently, said he, as if in answer to my unspoken question:

“Von Bulow found my thumb-mark on the store-list. He sent me a clipping from the Honolulu paper with a message to report to him at once, as he had the duplicate of that mark on the list. I knew what he meant. But you and the captain prevented my going in the boat he sent for me, so I waited until you had turned in, then swam ashore with my clothes in a bundle on my head.”

“And your system full of opium.”

He gave a thin smile. “I am used to the drug, sir. And laudanum in only a mild form; the tincture, I believe, sir.”

“Well,” said I, impatiently, for although I felt a certain pity for the man he got upon my nerves. “What's the meaning of all this?”

“It's a long story, sir.”

“Well, then,” said I, “finish with your food and let's have it.”

He nodded, continuing to eat in the same wolfish manner. I was surprised at his hunger, especially as he was far from being over the effects of his drug, but I drew out my pipe and tobacco pouch, lighted up and waited. Presently Silverside stopped eating and stared at me for a moment with his mottled, chocolate-coloured eyes, then began to speak in the toneless voice of a man in an hypnotic trance.

“Therese Berdou and I came out to the Pacific nineteen years ago on the auxiliary yacht of the Marquis de Moulincourt,” said he. “She was a poor relation of Madame la Marquise, and only sixteen. She was only sixteen and very beautiful, but madame treated her more as a maid than as a relative. I was the chef. Monsieur was kinder to the girl than was madame, and when we got to Tahiti madame decided that he was far too kind, and sent Therese ashore with money to take her back to France. I left the yacht at Tahiti, and got a position as chef in the Hotel de France.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To be near Therese. She had told me that she would not go back to France to be badly treated by her family. She remained at Tahiti and became a teacher in the Jesuit mission.”

“You were in love with her?” I asked.

A pale flame lighted Silverside's haggard face. “I have loved her always,” he said, and with, I must confess, a certain dignity.

“Go on,” said I.

The glow faded from the vague, mottled eyes.

“She taught there for six months, and then one day, when his trading schooner was lying in the port, Fairfax saw her. 'Tiapolo Fairfax' ... 'big devil Fairfax.' He was different then from the blue-lipped, blotchy, shuddering wreck you met on the Australia. He was straight and strong and cleanly made; such a body as Michelangelo could not have moulded, with the face of a demigod, and blazing, blue eyes that had wrecked many a woman's reason. His face at that time had the quality of that of an archangel, with its strong, sweet mouth, and hair like yellow gold that clustered about his ears. To look at him no person could believe that the tales told of him were true. It was only when drunk that the devil which lived inside of him took charge, and then no Tartar could have been more savage. I knew nothing of this, nothing of the stories of his savageries, and it seemed to me that here was the perfect mate for Therese. I arranged their meetings, and I helped him to carry her off.”

“But you say you loved her...” I cried.

“That was the reason. I wished that she should have only of the best ... and in Tahiti her beauty was on everybody's lips, and the men that saw her went mad about her. There was even the governor, who wished to marry her; and the colonel, Comte de la Tour d'Auvergne; both noble, both rich, but not good enough for Therese. So Fairfax took her, and I shipped aboard his schooner as cook. It was understood that they were to fly to the Paumotas to be married, but when we got there Fairfax swore that he would see himself damned before he would bind himself to such a 'hell-cat.' They had quarrelled already, and he made her drink with him, and afterwards she would lock herself in her state-room and wait with a loaded rifle for him to try to enter. He made me try to force the door one day, and she sent a bullet through my shoulder, thinking that it was Fairfax on the other side. We put into Manhu after fruit and fowls, and I met your father there and told him the story. He talked with Fairfax, who laughed at him, and called him a psalm-singing hypocrite, finally offering to marry Therese if your father could thrash him in a fair fight. No doubt you have heard how the matter turned out.”

“Tell me again,” I said, eagerly.

“Fairfax was drunk, and your father would not fight him in that condition. The next day Fairfax went ashore, and your father beat him into a jelly. The strange part was that I had to hold Therese. She wanted to shoot your father. But Fairfax kept his word, and they were married. He had a plantation in the friendly group, and we went there. After they were married, Therese seemed to change, and grew soft and gentle as spring on the steppes. But Fairfax grew worse. I have seen him beat her as one would not beat a mutinous dog.”

“And you did not try to interfere?”

“I was afraid of him,” said Silverside, simply.

“And afterwards...?”

“Afterwards Delphine was born, and Fairfax stole a native girl from a trader named Maginnis, and was gone for six months. When he returned, Therese would have none of him. She had grown to hate him after the birth of her daughter. Then someone carried a lying tale to Fairfax. He had left me to look after the plantation, and one day in a fit of drunken rage he burned the whole place to the ground, drove me aboard the schooner and sailed off. He knew of my dread of physical pain, for I could never endure being hurt, and to revenge himself for his fancied wrong, he stripped me and lashed me down on deck and poured vitriol on an old burn scar on my side. Then, to make his work complete, he landed me on a leper island.”

“Is that the truth?” I cried.

“As God is my judge, Dr. Ames.”

“And how did you escape?”

“I swam to a passing vessel. I was twenty hours in the water, and when I was taken aboard the captain would not believe my story, and thinking that I was an escaped leper, he carried me in irons to Molokai, for he was bound for Honolulu. I was two years on Molokai before I could convince them that I was clean. Finally, they let me go. When I got back to the island I found that Therese and the child had been cared for by the chief. So I went away and got a billet as head cook on one of the Pacific mail ships, sending all that I could save to Therese through an honest trader whom I knew; Captain Muller, who was aboard yesterday.”

“And what then, Silverside?” I asked, gently, for the man's face was bloodless, and there was a rime of sweat on his broad, low forehead. I noticed that his hair was white, where it had grown out since he had dyed it.

“I left the line to take a better job as cook in the Royal Hotel at Sydney. While there I met a man who told me a tale of how he had been shipwrecked on an uninhabited island, and while there had discovered that the lagoon was rich with pearl oysters. There were three of them, and after a while they patched up a broken whaleboat that had washed ashore and put to sea. The other two died of thirst and hunger, but this man was picked up alive. He did not know where the island was, but the instant that he described it, especially the entrance, I recalled it as a place where we had once put in for water when I was sailing with Daniel Fairfax. I was convinced that this man told the truth, and I knew where the island lay, but I had no money to fit out an expedition. Nobody would listen to the tale, so in the end I went to Suva and talked to Von Bulow. He wanted to send one of his pearlers, but I refused. In the end he gave me five thousand dollars, on condition that if I found the island I was to report it to him, when we were to work it in partnership, he to have two-thirds, and I a third. Then I played him false.”

“How?” I asked.

Silverside's expression grew veiled.

“Gaston Berdou, Therese's brother, came out,” said he. “I met him in Auckland. He was in the merchant marine—first mate. We bought a schooner with Von Bulow's money, and were about to go to the island with a native crew and native divers, when I learned indirectly that Fairfax was in Seattle and was coming back. So I told Berdou to take his sister and her child to some other island ... and I went back to the United States.”

“What for?” I asked.

“To kill Fairfax,” said Silverside, in a flat voice.

“Did you know that he had struck it rich?” I asked.

“Yes. That was the reason I wished to kill him, doctor. If he had been coming back poor and broken, I might have spared him. But after what had passed; when I had been working and slaving for years to support Therese and educate her daughter, Delphine, to have Fairfax return, fat and prosperous, to claim them, was too much. I could have found it in my heart to pass the wrong that he did to me. But they were mine ... not his. I had worked for them, and although ten years passed without my seeing Therese, I could not endure that 'Tiapolo Fairfax' should return to claim her. Besides, I hated him.'

Silverside's head sunk between his shoulders, and he was silent for awhile. I did not speak. He seemed to drowse, but presently roused himself.

“Berdou took the schooner and what money was left and set out, first to hide them, then to work the pearl island should there be anything there. I worked my way to San Francisco, and there I found my enemy. Once, in the hotel at San Francisco where he was stopping, I went up and looked into his room....”

“Over the transom of the door?”

“Yes. He told you? I found him awake in his bed. He snatched a revolver from under his pillow. I had got a job as waiter in the hotel. Then I learned that he was going out on the Australia, and I shipped as stoker to be near him. The rest you know.”

“But how about ... what happened afterwards?” I asked.

“Von Bulow”?”

“Yes ... and all this.”

“Von Bulow saw my thumb-mark on the store list and sent for me. I did not dare refuse, so I went to see him. He offered me the choice between taking this yawl of his to the pearl island or being given up to the authorities. I was ... very tired ... and said that he might give me up. I had given Berdou the bearings of the island, and I learned that he had been working the beds. He has been selling the pearls to Von Bulow.”

“Did Berdou know of your obligation to Von Bulow?” I asked.

“No. But Von Bulow suspected that he was working for me. When I refused, he drugged me and had me taken aboard this yawl. Now I have got to take them there.”

“And if you don't?” I asked.

Silverside's face turned grey.

“Torture...” he whispered. “Sam Lung has his orders. There is no help for it, Dr. Ames. I cannot stand torture. Oh, no ... no.”

There was another long silence. Then, I asked:

“And Fairfax's wife and child ... where are they? Why didn't you tell me? You knew that we were looking for them, did you not?”

“Yes,” answered Silverside. “I knew that.”

“Then why....”

Silverside roused himself. The face that he turned to me was almost terrifying in it's ghastly intensity. His eyes burned.

“Because, loving Therese as I always have and always shall, in this world and the next,” he answered, with a passion that was all the more terrible for its quiet, smothered tension, “I would rather see her ... and the child devoured by sharks than that they should ever furnish the sop to Fairfax's tormented soul that might come of their profiting by one penny of his gold,” said he. “What is Von Bulow to me? What are you? What is anything ... after what I have wrought and suffered? Fairfax is dead ... by these two hands, and for days my greatest dread was lest his malady might cheat me of what was mine. But God was good to me, and he has gone to hell, his gold hung round his neck to sink him to the uttermost depths. Therese does not need his money; Berdou can provide for her when I am gone.”

He fell forward across the table, burying his forehead in his arm.

I waited in silence. Presently Silverside roused himself.

“It was not my intention to defraud Von Bulow,” said he. “I intended that he should profit richly later on. But I wished first to make Therese independent should anything happen to me, and I did not trust Von Bulow; or, at least, I was unwilling to trust him to turn over my share to Berdou. That is where I made a mistake.”

“Does Von Bulow know that Berdou is the brother of Therese?” I asked.

A faint smile played over Silverside's thin, delicate lips.

“Yes. He once saw Therese when she was aboard Fairfax's schooner. Seeing Berdou, he recognised the family resemblance. I told him last night how it had come about, and swore that he would lose nothing, but he refused to trust me again.”

“See here, Silverside,” said I. “What made you ship as cook on the Favourite? Why didn't you communicate with Berdou?”

“For one thing, I was afraid to hang about Apia. Besides, all my money was gone. More than that, I do not know where Berdou is to be found, nor do I know where he has taken Therese and the child. In my last letter, I told him to write me poste restante to Honolulu, but there was no letter ... Hush... here comes Sam Lung. He understands English.”

(To be continued.)