The king of Maleku

by H. de Vere Stacpoole

The King of Maleku

By H. De Vere Stacpoole
Author of “The Blue Lagoon,” “In His Place,” etc.

 

Feminism in the Southern Seas.

 

CONNART had started in life with a fine, open, believing disposition, and with that disposition for his chief asset, he had entered the world of business. At thirty he had lost nearly everything but his heart. Then that was stolen from him, also, by one Mary Bateman, of Boston, a quiet-looking little woman endowed with common sense, a few thousand dollars, and a taste for travel. It was this taste, combined with a slight weakness of the lungs, that induced Connart to go into the Pacific trade; also a legacy, from an English relation, amounting to some two thousand pounds odd, which enabled him to make the new start in business without calling on his wife’s capital.

Dobree, of. San Francisco, gave him the pitch. Connart had the qualities of his defects. Men robbed him, but they liked him. Men are queer things. Dobree, in business, was a very tough person indeed, quite without any finer feelings and never giving a cent or a chance away, yet, taking a liking to Connart, he gave him for nothing a house, a godown, and the chance of success on this island, by the name of Maleku.

“I had a station there up to six months ago,” said Dobree, “but I’m getting rid of my copra interests. You can have the house, charter a schooner, fill up with trade, and go down there. It’s a good climate and will suit your wife. You won’t make a fortune, but you won't do badly if you stick to your guns and don’t let the Kanakas get the weather gauge on you. There’s only one man there. Seedbaum is his name. He’s a tough customer, by all accounts, but there’s copra enough for two. I know a schooner you can have—the Golden Light. She’s owned by old Tom Bowlby. I’ve got a fellow at a station on Tomasu. That’s a hundred and fifty miles west of Maleku. There’s a cargo waiting shipment there. Bowlby can drop you and your stuff at Maleku; then pick up my cargo at the other place. You won’t have your copra ready for some months, and you can make arrangements with him to come back for it. You might make arrangements to work in future with Bowlby. He’s a straight man. You might work with him as a partner.”

It was easy to be seen that Dobree was not only giving things away, but going out of his course to make things smooth. Connart felt glowingly thankful.

“It’s more than good of you,” said he, “but it seems to me you will lose over this, for a location like that is worth money.”

“So are cigars,” said Dobree, “but if I give a box of cigars to a friend, he doesn’t complain that the gift is worth money. D——n money!” continued this money grubber. “It’s worth nothing but the fun of making it. Well, will you take your cigars or shall I give the box to some one else?”

Connart said no more. In three weeks’ time, the Golden Light, which was lying at the wharves, had taken her cargo of all the multitudinous things that go by the name of “trade,” and one bright morning, tacking against the wind from the sea, she left the Golden Gate behind her.

Mrs. Connart stood on deck, watching bald Tamalpais across the blue, scudding sea of the wake. When you go to the Pacific Islands, you die to all the things you have known, but you are at least sure that you are going to heaven—if you avoid the low islands.

Mrs. Connart knew the first fact. Down below in her cabin, she carried with her the relics of the life she would no longer lead, down to a well-worn riding habit and a whip that would most likely never touch horse again. But she was not despondent; quite the reverse.

You may be seasick in a Pacific schooner bucking against the swell and bending to the northwest trades, you may be mutinous or angry or tipsy; but despondency, that low fever of cities and civilization, has no place out there.

“You ain’t feelin’ the sea, ma’am,” said Captain Bowlby, ranging up alongside of her.

“No,” said she, “I’m a good sailor.”

“I bet you are!” said the captain.

Bowlby had a keen eye for ships and women. He had taken a liking to Mrs. Connart at first sight. She had a steady eye and a sure smile that pleased him, and some days later, alone with Ambrose the mate, he voiced his opinions.

“Looks like a mouse, don’t she? Well, there ain’t no mouse about her, barring the look. She’s one of them quiet sorts that’d back chat a congressman if she was put to it, or take a lion by the tail if it was makin’ for one of her kids. I bet she’s rudder and compass both to Connart. She and he fit as if they was welded. Did you ever take notice that there’s chaps you meet that’re only half men till they get a woman that fits them clapped on to them? If she don’t fit, they go under the first beam sea they meet; if she do, weather won’t hurt them.”

Ambrose concurred. He was a concurring individual, with few opinions on any matters outside his trade.

“I reckon you’re right,” said he, “though I don’t know much about women. I never had the time,” he finished apologetically.

II.

They raised Maleku at six o'clock one brilliant morning, and by nine it had developed before them, mountainous and green, showing, through the glasses, the blowing foliage, torrent traces, and the foam on the barrier reef.

To Connart and his wife, there seemed something miraculous in the unfolding of this island from the wastes of the blue and desolate sea. They had pictured this new home often in their minds, but they had pictured nothing like this. It had been waiting for them all their lives, and it seemed to them now that the souls of all the pleasant places they had ever seen or dreamed of were waiting to greet them on that summer-girdled reef.

As they passed the break and entered the lagoon, the true island beach of blinding white sand showed its curve, lipped by the emerald waters, and through the foliage came glimpses of the white houses of the little town.

“Look!” said Mrs. Connart, wide-eyed and drawing deep breaths as if to inhale the strangeness and beauty of the scene before her. “There are people on the beach—natives. And look at the canoes!”

“There’s a boat pushing off,” said Connart, “and a big fellow in a striped suit in her.”

“That’s Seedbaum,” said Captain Bowlby. “Wonder what he wants—gin, likely.”

The anchor fell, waking the echoes of the woods, and the Golden Light, swinging to the tide that was just beginning to steal out of the lagoon, lay with her nose pointing to the beach, while the boat came alongside and the man in the striped suit scrambled on board.

He was a big man with bulging eyes, a shaved head, and feet incased in worn-out tennis shoes. The suit seemed made of flannelette,

Mrs. Connart, at first sight, took a profound dislike to this individual.

Seedbaum—for Seedbaum it was—saluted Bowlby, gave him a good day, cast his eye at the strangers, and opened up.

“I knew you before you made the anchorage,” said he. “Dropped in for water, I suppose.”

“No, I’ve water enough till I fetch Tomasu,” replied Bowlby. “I’ve brought some trade.”

“Trade?” said Seedbaum, offering a cigar. “Well, I don’t mind taking some prints and knives off you at a reasonable price. I’m full up with canned goods and tobacco. Still—at a reasonable figure——”

“The trade’s not mine,” said Bowlby, lighting the cigar. “It belongs to the new trader—that gentleman there. Mr. Connart’s his name. Let me make you known. Mr. Connart, this is Mr. Seedbaum.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” said Connart.

Seedbaum, fingering an unlit cigar, stared at Connart.

“Well, this gets me,” said he. “Why, Dobree cleared his last man out for good. There’s not business enough in this island for two—that’s flat. What’s he want to send you for?”

“He didn’t send me,” replied Connart.

“Then,” said Seedbaum, “what brought you here, anyway?”

“I think,” said Mrs. Connart, “this ship brought us here. And—excuse me—do you own this island?”

Seedbaum stared at her; then his glance fell before that quiet, unwavering gaze, and he turned to Bowlby.

“Well,” said he, “it’s none of my affair if the whole continent of the States comes here to find copra—if it’s to be found. But it seems to me this is a pretty dry ship.”

“Come down below,” said Bowlby.

They went below, and the pop of a beer-bottle cork followed upon their descent.

“Oh, what a creature!” said Mrs. Connart. “George, why is it that humanity alone produces things like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Connart. “But I wish humanity had not produced it here.”

Seedbaum came on deck again, mollified by beer. Despite the setdown he had received, he nodded to the newcomers as he went over the side, and as they watched him being rowed ashore, Seedbaum stared at her; then his glance fell before that quiet, unwavering gaze, and he turned to Bowlby.

Bowlby, leaning on the rail, spat into the water and spoke.

“I didn’t much trouble tellin’ you of that chap on the way out,” said Bowlby. “There’s no use in meetin’ troubles half-way, and there’s not an island in the hull Pacific you won’t find trouble of some sort in. If you go in for Pacific tradin’, there’s two things you have to face—cockroaches and men. I’ve kept the old Light pretty free of roaches by fumigatin’, but you can’t fumigate islands. If you could, I reckon you’d see more rats with hands and feet takin’ to the water than’s ever been seen since the Ark discharged cargo. Seedbaum’d be one of them. But you have his measure now, and you’ll know enough to go careful with him. Wiart, the last man that was here, got on all right with him. You see, they were pretty much of a pair, and it’s my belief they were hand in glove, as you might say. But I reckon you won't have much use for a glove like that. Well, I’ll get you ashore now to see your house, and I’ll help to fix it up for you. We'll begin gettin’ the cargo ashore to-morrow.”

He ordered a boat to be lowered, and they rowed ashore.

Never, not even in dreamland, had Mrs. Connart experienced anything so strange as that stepping on shore from the bow of the boat run high and dry on the shelving beach, never anything like the touch of land after the long, long weeks of seafaring, and the sights, the sounds, the perfumes all new, belonging to a new life to be lived in a new world.

The white house set in a little garden at the far end of the village pleased her as much as the place. Her house is almost as much as her husband to a woman, for, to a woman, a house implies so much more than to a man. There are good houses and bad houses, crazy houses exhibiting the folly of their builders in stucco turrets or mad chimney pots, and stupid houses without character or proper sculleries and sinks. The house at Maleku, though small and possessing few rooms, was cheerful and had a pleasant personality of its own, but it did not possess a stick of furniture. Mrs. Connart, with the prescience of a woman and assisted by the advice of Bowlby, had brought with them from San Francisco articles of furniture not to be obtained in the islands unless at a ruinous cost. Mats, cane chairs, and hammocks could be obtained from the natives. All the same, there had been furniture in the house, and it was gone. Dobree had given them a list of things, and among them was an article on which Mrs. Connart had, womanlike, set her heart. “One red cedar chest, four foot six by three foot,” was its specification.

“But who can have taken them?” said she, as they stood in the empty front room after a tour of inspection. “There was crockery ware, besides, and oh, ever so many things, and Mr. Dobree was so kind. He wouldn’t take a penny for them. You remember, George, he said, ‘When I give a friend a box of cigars, I don’t take the bands off them. Whatever is there you can have.’ And now there’s nothing.”

“Maybe the Kanakas have taken them,” said Bowlby.

“Or Seedbaum,” said Connart.

“As like as not,” replied the captain. “He seems to look on the blessed place as his. He told me down in the cabin he reckoned he was king of Maleku and that all the Kanakas jumped to his orders as if he was king. He’s got a clutch on the place, there’s no denying that, and he manages to keep missionaries away somehow or ’nother. I’m afraid you’re going to have trouble with that chap.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” said Connart. “I’ve got a revolver and can use it if worst comes to the worst.”

“Oh, it’s not revolvers I’m thinkin’ of,” said the captain. “It’s trickery. He’d trick the devil out of his hoofs and then make gelatin of them, would Seedbaum. Have no trade dealin’s with him, take my advice. Just stick to the Kanakas.”

“Let’s go and ask him, right now, if he knows where the things have gone to,” said Mrs. Connart.

“Well, that’s not a bad idea,” said Bowlby. “He’s sure to lie. But, anyhow, it’ll clear matters.”

Seedbaum’s house was a substantially built coral, lime-washed building with a broad veranda in which hung a cage containing a parrot. The garden was neat and well tended, and the whole place had an air of quiet prosperity, neatness, and order, as if the better part of the owner’s character were here exhibited for the general view.

Seedbaum was seated on the veranda, reading a San Francisco paper obtained from Bowlby. Seeing them approach, he rose to greet them.

“I’ve come to ask you about the furniture in our house,” said Connart. “There were quite a lot of things left by the last man, and I have a list of them, but everything has gone—been taken away. Do you know anything about the matter?”

“I don’t know anything of what you call furniture,” said the other. “Wiart sold me his sticks, when he left, for fifty dollars, and a bad bargain it was.”

“He sold you them?”

“Yes.”

“But they belonged to Mr. Dobree.”

“Oh, did they? Well, Dobree will have to dispute that with Wiart. Wiart said they were his.”

“Have you his receipt?”

“Lord, no! There was no receipt in the matter. I handed him over the dollars, and he handed me over the rubbish. It was a favor to him.”

“Was there a red cedar-wood chest?” asked Mrs. Connart.

“There was. It’s in my house now. You can see it through the door.”

Through the open door, which gave a view of the front room, Mrs. Connart saw the object of her desire. It was a beauty—solid, moth defying, with brass corners and brass handles. It was hers by all right, and Seedbaum had tricked her out of it. She spoke.

“That chest is mine,” said she. “Mr. Dobree gave it to me. It was his property, and Mr. Wiart had no right to sell it.”

“Well,” said Seedbaum, “he sold it, and if there’s any trouble over it, it will be between Dobree and Wiart. Wiart was going to Japan—so he said when he left here—so Dobree had better go to Japan and have it out with him.”

Mrs. Connart turned.

“Come,” said she to the others. “There is no use talking any more to this person. I will write to Mr. Dobree.”

They turned away, and Seedbaum sat down again to read his newspaper.

“That’s what I said,” spoke Bowlby. “Monkey tricks. You see how he’s placed. Wiart’s gone Lord knows where, and Pacific-coast law don’t run here. The way for you to do is to lay low and then fetch him in the eye unexpected, somehow. Though if you take my advice, you’ll give him a wide offing. There’s no use in fightin’ with alligators. Better leave them be. Hullo! What’s that?”

They turned.

Seedbaum had come out of the veranda. A passing native had roused his ire for some reason or other and the redoubtable Seedbaum was storming at him. Then he kicked the native, and the latter, a big, powerful man, turned and ran.

“The coward!” said Mrs. Connart.

“I expect that chap ain’t a coward,” said Bowlby. “He’s just ’feared of Seedbaum. I reckon there’re some curious things in nature. I’ve seen a whole ship’s-company livin’ in terror of a hazin’ captain. They could have hove him overboard and swore he fell over—for the after guard was as set against him as the fo’c’s’le—but they didn’t. Just let themselves be driv’ like sheep and kicked like terriers. It’s the same with the Kanakas on this island, I expect.”

“He’s got a personal ascendancy over them,” said Connart.

“I reckon he’s got something like that,” said Captain Bowlby.

III.

In a week they were settled down, and a few days later, the cargo having been landed and stored, the Golden Light took her departure.

They went down to the beach to see her off, they watched her topsails vanish beyond the reef, and they returned feeling very much alone in the world. A good man is warmth and light even to the souls of sinners. Captain Bowlby was illiterate, his language was free, he was not a saint, but he was a good, human man right through. The sea turns out characters like this just as she turns out shells. It is a pity that they have to cling to the ocean and the beaches; the cities need them.

“I feel just as if I had lost a near relation,” said Mrs. Connart.

“Well, we'll have him back soon,” said her husband. “It’s up to us now to get the copra to give him a cargo.”

Next morning the new trader began business by laying out a selection of goods in the veranda of his store. Mrs. Connart, who knew something of the Polynesian dialects, and who had the art of picking up unknown tongues, had already got in touch with the Kanakas. They charmed and pleased her, especially the children, and wherever she went, she was greeted by friendly faces. It seemed to her that the population of this island, leaving out Seedbaum, her husband, and herself, consisted entirely of children—children of different sizes and different ages, but children all the same.

Returning that day from a long walk in the woods, she found Connart smoking a pipe on the veranda of their house. He looked rather depressed.

“I can’t make it out,” said he. “There’s no trade doing.”

“Maybe they don’t know you have started in business yet.”

“Oh, yes, they do. Lots of them have passed and seen the store open. They’ve turned to look at the goods and they seemed attracted, but they went on.”

“Well, give them time,” said she.

“Look!” said Connart. “There’s copra going to Seedbaum’s. They’re trading with him, right enough.”

Mrs. Connart watched the copra bearers, but said nothing.

In her heart she felt that Seedbaum was moving against them by some stealthy means. At first she thought that it might be possible he had worked upon the native mind and induced the Kanakas to put a taboo upon the new-comers, but she dismissed this idea at once. There was no taboo. The Kanakas were not a bit afraid of either her or her husband; on the contrary, there was every evidence of friendliness.

“Well,” she said that night, when the store had been closed for the day without a knife or a stick of tobacco changing hands, “there’s nothing to be done till we find out why they are acting so. It’s that creature, I am sure. He began by robbing me of my beautiful cedar-wood chest, and he’s going on to rob you of your chances in business. Well, let him beware. I’m Christian enough not to wish to hurt him, but I’m Christian enough to believe there’s a Power that punishes the wicked, and he’s wicked. I knew him for a wicked man directly he came on board the ship.”

“He keeps to himself, and that’s one good thing,” said Connart. “But I don’t see how he can stop the natives from trading with us.”

“I don’t either, but I know he does,” said she.

The next day passed without business being done, and the next.

“We may as well shut up shop, it seems to me,” said Connart. “How would it be if you spoke to some of these people and asked them what is the matter?”

“I’ve thought of that,” said his wife, “and I held off because—because—— Oh, I don’t know! It seems sort of indelicate to ask people why they don’t come to one’s store. That’s because I’m city bred, I suppose. But I’ll do it. I’ll do it to-morrow morning, first thing. One mustn’t let one’s feelings stand in the way when one’s living is concerned.”

“I wish we had never come here,” said he, “for your sake.”

“Never come here!” she cried. “Why, I wouldn’t for the earth have gone anywhere else! I love the place and I love the people, and what are difficulties? Why, difficulties are the main excitement in life. If life wasn’t an obstacle race, it would be a very flat affair. George, we have got to beat that man, and I’m going to! You wait and see!”

He kissed her and blessed her, and they sat down that night to a game of cribbage, Seedbaum and the wickedness of the world forgotten.

Next morning after breakfast, Mrs. Connart went out. She passed through the village and on to the beach, brilliant in the morning light, breeze blown and filled with the murmurs of the reef. Some natives were pulling in a net, and she watched them, chatting to them and playing with the children who had come down to secure the little fish. Then she had a talk with a woman who was standing by, a woman dark and straight as an arrow, a woman mild-eyed and with a voice sweet as the sound of running water.

Leaving her, Mrs. Connart passed to a man who was engaged in mending an outrigger of one of the canoes hauled up on the beach. She had a talk with him, also.

Then she returned, walking slowly and thoughtfully, to the house, where she found her husband.

“George,” said she, “I am right. It is that creature. The people hate him, but they are afraid of him. It seems absolutely absurd, but it is so. He holds them in a spell. He kicks them and beats them, but they are not afraid of that. It’s just him.”

“Good Lord,” said Connart, “why on earth don’t they rise against him and tell him to go to the devil? He’s only one man, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” said she. “It’s a mystery of human nature. He’s the tyrant type, and it’s always been the same in the world—there’s some sort of magnetism in that type that keeps folk under. History is full of that. It’s the soft man and the kindly man and the good man that’s assassinated, but tyrants seem to go free. He’s what he said he was—the king of this place. Well, we must see what we can do to pull him from his throne. I wish there were more whites here.”

“That’s the bother,” said Connart.

Next morning they found a basket of fruit in their veranda, a gift from some unknown person. It was as if the Kanakas, afraid to show their sympathy and friendliness openly for the strangers, had done it in this manner. But no one came to trade.

That night, two chickens, some sweet potatoes, and another basket of fruit were deposited in the same place.

“And we can’t thank them,” said Mrs. Connart, “but I believe these haven’t all come from one person. I think it’s every one here. They all like us. Oh, George, isn’t it maddening that we can’t have them openly our friends just because of that beast?”

“It is,” said George.

Now at eleven o’clock that morning, Mrs. Connart, seated on the veranda and engaged on some needlework, noticed a little native girl, who, pausing at the garden gate and seeming undecided, at last picked up courage, opened the gate, and came toward the house.

Connart was in the house going over some accounts when his wife ran in to him.

“George, come at once!” cried she. “Such a dreadful thing! They’ve risen against Seedbaum and they’re killing him somewhere in the woods, and they want us to go and see!”

“Good Lord!” cried he. “Killing him! Want us to go and see! Are they mad?”

He picked up his hat and came out on the veranda, where the pretty little native girl was waiting, a flower of the scarlet hibiscus in her hair and calm contentment in her eyes.

“I can’t quite make out all she says,” said Mrs. Connart, “but I can make out her meaning.”

“You'd better stay here,” said he, “while I go. There may be trouble.”

“I’m not afraid,” she replied. “Come on. We may be too late.”

They followed the child.

“Tell her to hurry,” said Connart.

“She says we need not hurry,” replied she. “As far as I can make out, they are only going to kill him. I expect they have him a prisoner somewhere. Well, much as I hate him, I’m glad we will be able to save him.”

“That depends on how the natives take it,” said he.

The child led them from the road by a path trod by the copra gatherers, a path running through the wonderland of the woods, a green gloom where the soaring palms shot upward through a twilight roofed with moving shadows and sun sparkles.

They reached a glade where a number of natives were seated in a circle. Above them and swinging by a cord from two trees hung a little disk, about half the size of a tambourine. The disk was made of cane, and so constructed as to leave a small hole in the center. An old native woman, seated under the disk, was clapping her hands and repeating something that sounded like an incantation. Every pair of eyes in the whole of that assembly was fixed upon the disk.

The child whispered something to Mrs. Connart. She turned from the child and whispered to her husband.

“It’s only witchcraft. That’s a soul trap. They are waiting for a fly to pass through the hole in that thing. If it does, then Seedbaum will die.”

“Good heavens!” murmured Connart with a half laugh. “Why, the fellow hasn’t any soul—not enough to furnish a fly!”

They watched patiently for ten minutes. There were plenty of flies. They rested on the little tambourine, crawled round its edge, but not one went through the hole.

“Come,” whispered Connart.

They withdrew, taking the path back.

“It’s pathetic,” murmured she.

“It’s damned foolishness,” he replied. “They trade with him and let him kick them and then go on with that nonsense. If they refused him copra, they would bring him to his senses quick enough.”

“Anyhow, they hate him,” said she.

“Much good that is!” he replied.

IV.

Now it came about that the soul trap—turning out a dead failure, since not a single fly went through the hole—instead of destroying Seedbaum, fixed him on a pedestal more secure than that which he had hitherto occupied.

He was indestructible, and the power which he exercised over the native mind threatened to be as indestructible as himself.

However, vengeance was coming—retribution for all the wrongs he had committed, his swindlings, brutalities, and beatings.

It came in this wise:

One afternoon Mrs. Connart, seated in the veranda and reading, heard the cries of a child.

Right in front of the house, King Seedbaum was beating a native child for some fault or fancied disrespect toward his royal highness, cuffing it and cuffing it, while the squeals of the cuffed one affronted the heavens and the ears of all listeners.

Now to touch a child or a dog or a cat in Mrs. Connart’s presence was to raise a devil. White as death, she rushed into the house and, white as death, she rushed out again. She held her riding whip in her hand, a Mexican quirt, lady’s size, but horribly efficient in energetic hands.

Seedbaum saw her coming, couldn’t understand, caught the first lash on his left arm and along his back—he was wearing the pajama suit—and his yell brought the village flocking and Connart running from a field where he was laying out some plants.

He saw the quirt lashing over Seedbaum’s shoulder, across his legs, and across his back, for the king was now running, running and pursued for ten yards or so while the quirt got one last blow in. Then Connart had his wife in his arms, and she was weeping.

“Did he touch you?” cried Connart.

“No—it was a child!” she gasped. “Beast! Look! He has run into his house!”

The street was filled with a crowd that, all through the beating, had remained spellbound. Now it broke up into knots and small parties, all talking together excitedly.

Connart, with his arm round his wife, drew her into the house. She sat down on a couch and laughed and sobbed. She was half hysterical, but not for long.

“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “I would do it again. It’s not because of us—but because he was beating a child.”

“Brute!” said Connart. “I’ll go down now and give him more! I want to have it out with him right now!”

He turned to the door. She caught him.

“No,” she cried, “he’s had enough! He won’t do it again. Listen! What’s that?”

From away in the direction of Seedbaum’s house came a sound like the swarming of angry bees, also shouts. They rushed to the door and saw Seedbaum—Seedbaum with fifty people around him, all trying to beat him at the same time.

“Good God,” said Connart, “you’ve taught them the trick! They’ll kill him!”

“He’s got away!” cried Mrs. Connart.

Seedbaum, breaking from the crowd, was making up the street, the whole village after him. He passed the Connarts’ house and headed for the woods, where he disappeared. Then his pursuers drew off and, rushing to the house of Connart, swarmed at the railings, shouting and waving and laughing, while Mrs. Connart interpreted.

“They say he’ll never come back to the village again,” said she, “for they’ll kill him if he does—that he’ll have to live in the woods. Oh, George, I’m frightened! What will be the end of it all?”

The end was a whale ship that came into the lagoon. Seedbaum, living in the woods and supported by the generosity of the Connarts, was given notice by the three chiefs of the island, Matua, Tamura, and Ratupea by name, that if he did not go away in the whale ship, he would be killed before the next ship arrived. And he went.

He was almost friendly with the Connarts, in return for their food and protection, at the last, and as the natives would allow him to take nothing with him, he had to leave everything behind him, including the red cedar-wood chest, which thus came back to its rightful owner.

He did not even threaten the natives with governmental retribution; he knew he was done and placed out of court by his own conduct.

But the thing that always remained with Connart out of this affair was the fact that a population of active and vigorous people would still have been downtrodden by a merciless tyrant but for a little, quiet, calm-eyed woman, who had, unconsciously and just from an uprising of her own spirit, “shown them the trick.”

Spirit—after all, what else is there in the world beside it?