I. A Son of the Sun

by Jack London

　　IThe _Willi-Waw_ lay in the passage between the shore-reef and theouter-reef. From the latter came the low murmur of a lazy surf, but thesheltered stretch of water, not more than a hundred yards across to thewhite beach of pounded coral sand, was of glass-like smoothness. Narrowas was the passage, and anchored as she was in the shoalest place thatgave room to swing, the _Willi-Waw's_ chain rode up-and-down a cleanhundred feet. Its course could be traced over the bottom of livingcoral. Like some monstrous snake, the rusty chain's slack wanderedover the ocean floor, crossing and recrossing itself several times andfetching up finally at the idle anchor. Big rock-cod, dun and mottled,played warily in and out of the coral. Other fish, grotesque of form andcolour, were brazenly indifferent, even when a big fish-shark driftedsluggishly along and sent the rock-cod scuttling for their favouritecrevices.On deck, for'ard, a dozen blacks pottered clumsily at scraping the teakrail. They were as inexpert at their work as so many monkeys. In factthey looked very much like monkeys of some enlarged and prehistorictype. Their eyes had in them the querulous plaintiveness of the monkey,their faces were even less symmetrical than the monkey's, and, hairlessof body, they were far more ungarmented than any monkey, for clothesthey had none. Decorated they were as no monkey ever was. In holes intheir ears they carried short clay pipes, rings of turtle shell, hugeplugs of wood, rusty wire nails, and empty rifle cartridges. The calibreof a Winchester rifle was the smallest hole an ear bore; some of thelargest holes were inches in diameter, and any single ear averaged fromthree to half a dozen holes. Spikes and bodkins of polished bone orpetrified shell were thrust through their noses. On the chest of onehung a white doorknob, on the chest of another the handle of a chinacup, on the chest of a third the brass cogwheel of an alarm clock. Theychattered in queer, falsetto voices, and, combined, did no more workthan a single white sailor.Aft, under an awning, were two white men. Each was clad in a six-pennyundershirt and wrapped about the loins with a strip of cloth. Beltedabout the middle of each was a revolver and tobacco pouch. The sweatstood out on their skin in myriads of globules. Here and there theglobules coalesced in tiny streams that dripped to the heated deck andalmost immediately evaporated. The lean, dark-eyed man wiped his fingerswet with a stinging stream from his forehead and flung it from him witha weary curse. Wearily, and without hope, he gazed seaward across theouter-reef, and at the tops of the palms along the beach."Eight o'clock, an' hell don't get hot till noon," he complained. "Wishtto God for a breeze. Ain't we never goin' to get away?"The other man, a slender German of five and twenty, with the massiveforehead of a scholar and the tumble-home chin of a degenerate, did nottrouble to reply. He was busy emptying powdered quinine into a cigarettepaper. Rolling what was approximately fifty grains of the drug into atight wad, he tossed it into his mouth and gulped it down without theaid of water."Wisht I had some whiskey," the first man panted, after a fifteen-minuteinterval of silence.Another equal period elapsed ere the German enounced, relevant ofnothing:"I'm rotten with fever. I'm going to quit you, Griffiths, when we get toSydney. No more tropics for me. I ought to known better when I signed onwith you.""You ain't been much of a mate," Griffiths replied, too hot himself tospeak heatedly. "When the beach at Guvutu heard I'd shipped you, theyall laughed. 'What? Jacobsen?' they said. 'You can't hide a squareface of trade gin or sulphuric acid that he won't smell out!' You'vecertainly lived up to your reputation. I ain't had a drink for afortnight, what of your snoopin' my supply.""If the fever was as rotten in you as me, you'd understand," the matewhimpered."I ain't kickin'," Griffiths answered. "I only wisht God'd send me adrink, or a breeze of wind, or something. I'm ripe for my next chillto-morrow."The mate proffered him the quinine. Rolling a fifty-grain dose, hepopped the wad into his mouth and swallowed it dry."God! God!" he moaned. "I dream of a land somewheres where they ain't noquinine. Damned stuff of hell! I've scoffed tons of it in my time."Again he quested seaward for signs of wind. The usual trade-wind cloudswere absent, and the sun, still low in its climb to meridian, turned allthe sky to heated brass. One seemed to see as well as feel this heat,and Griffiths sought vain relief by gazing shoreward. The white beachwas a searing ache to his eyeballs. The palm trees, absolutely still,outlined flatly against the unrefreshing green of the packed jungle,seemed so much cardboard scenery. The little black boys, playingnaked in the dazzle of sand and sun, were an affront and a hurt to thesun-sick man. He felt a sort of relief when one, running, tripped andfell on all-fours in the tepid sea-water.An exclamation from the blacks for'ard sent both men glancing seaward.Around the near point of land, a quarter of a mile away and skirting thereef, a long black canoe paddled into sight."Gooma boys from the next bight," was the mate's verdict.One of the blacks came aft, treading the hot deck with the unconcern ofone whose bare feet felt no heat. This, too, was a hurt to Griffiths,and he closed his eyes. But the next moment they were open wide."White fella marster stop along Gooma boy," the black said.Both men were on their feet and gazing at the canoe. Aft could be seenthe unmistakable sombrero of a white man. Quick alarm showed itself onthe face of the mate."It's Grief," he said.Griffiths satisfied himself by a long look, then ripped out a wrathfuloath."What's he doing up here?" he demanded of the mate, of the aching seaand sky, of the merciless blaze of sun, and of the whole superheated andimplacable universe with which his fate was entangled.The mate began to chuckle."I told you you couldn't get away with it," he said.But Griffiths was not listening."With all his money, coming around like a rent collector," he chantedhis outrage, almost in an ecstasy of anger. "He's loaded with money,he's stuffed with money, he's busting with money. I know for a fact hesold his Yringa plantations for three hundred thousand pounds. Belltold me so himself last time we were drunk at Guvutu. Worth millions andmillions, and Shylocking me for what he wouldn't light his pipe with."He whirled on the mate. "Of course you told me so. Go on and say it, andkeep on saying it. Now just what was it you did tell me so?""I told you you didn't know him, if you thought you could clear theSolomons without paying him. That man Grief is a devil, but he'sstraight. I know. I told you he'd throw a thousand quid away for the funof it, and for sixpence fight like a shark for a rusty tin, I tell you Iknow. Didn't he give his _Balakula_ to the Queensland Mission when theylost their _Evening Star_ on San Cristobal?--and the _Balakula_ worththree thousand pounds if she was worth a penny? And didn't he beat upStrothers till he lay abed a fortnight, all because of a difference oftwo pound ten in the account, and because Strothers got fresh and triedto make the gouge go through?""God strike me blind!" Griffiths cried in im-potency of rage.The mate went on with his exposition."I tell you only a straight man can buck a straight man like him, andthe man's never hit the Solomons that could do it. Men like you and mecan't buck him. We're too rotten, too rotten all the way through. You'vegot plenty more than twelve hundred quid below. Pay him, and get it overwith."But Griffiths gritted his teeth and drew his thin lips tightly acrossthem."I'll buck him," he muttered--more to himself and the brazen ball of sunthan to the mate. He turned and half started to go below, then turnedback again. "Look here, Jacob-sen. He won't be here for quarter of anhour. Are you with me? Will you stand by me?""Of course I'll stand by you. I've drunk all your whiskey, haven't I?What are you going to do?""I'm not going to kill him if I can help it. But I'm not going to pay.Take that flat."Jacobsen shrugged his shoulders in calm acquiescence to fate, andGriffiths stepped to the companionway and went below.IIJacobsen watched the canoe across the low reef as it came abreast andpassed on to the entrance of the passage. Griffiths, with ink-marks onright thumb and forefinger, returned on deck Fifteen minutes later thecanoe came alongside. The man with the sombrero stood up."Hello, Griffiths!" he said. "Hello, Jacobsen!" With his hand on therail he turned to his dusky crew. "You fella boy stop along canoealtogether."As he swung over the rail and stepped on deck a hint of catlikelitheness showed in the apparently heavy body. Like the other two, hewas scantily clad. The cheap undershirt and white loin-cloth did notserve to hide the well put up body. Heavy muscled he was, but he wasnot lumped and hummocked by muscles. They were softly rounded, and, whenthey did move, slid softly and silkily under the smooth, tanned skin.Ardent suns had likewise tanned his face till it was swarthy as aSpaniard's. The yellow mustache appeared incongruous in the midst ofsuch swarthiness, while the clear blue of the eyes produced a feeling ofshock on the beholder. It was difficult to realize that the skin of thisman had once been fair."Where did you blow in from?" Griffiths asked, as they shook hands. "Ithought you were over in the Santa Cruz.""I was," the newcomer answered. "But we made a quick passage. The_Wonder's_ just around in the bight at Gooma, waiting for wind. Someof the bushmen reported a ketch here, and I just dropped around to see.Well, how goes it?""Nothing much. Copra sheds mostly empty, and not half a dozen tons ofivory nuts. The women all got rotten with fever and quit, and the mencan't chase them back into the swamps. They're a sick crowd. I'd ask youto have a drink, but the mate finished off my last bottle. I wisht toGod for a breeze of wind."Grief, glancing with keen carelessness from one to the other, laughed."I'm glad the calm held," he said. "It enabled me to get around to seeyou. My supercargo dug up that little note of yours, and I brought italong."The mate edged politely away, leaving his skipper to face his trouble."I'm sorry, Grief, damned sorry," Griffiths said, "but I ain't got it.You'll have to give me a little more time."Grief leaned up against the companionway, surprise and pain depicted onhis face."It does beat hell," he communed, "how men learn to lie in the Solomons.The truth's not in them. Now take Captain Jensen. I'd sworn by histruthfulness. Why, he told me only five days ago--do you want to knowwhat he told me?"Griffiths licked his lips."Go on.""Why, he told me that you'd sold out--sold out everything, cleaned up,and was pulling out for the New Hebrides.""He's a damned liar!" Griffiths cried hotly.Grief nodded."I should say so. He even had the nerve to tell me that he'd bought twoof your stations from you--Mauri and Kahula. Said he paid you seventeenhundred gold sovereigns, lock, stock and barrel, good will, trade-goods,credit, and copra."Griffiths's eyes narrowed and glinted. The action was involuntary, andGrief noted it with a lazy sweep of his eyes."And Parsons, your trader at Hickimavi, told me that the Fulcrum Companyhad bought that station from you. Now what did he want to lie for?"Griffiths, overwrought by sun and sickness, exploded. All his bitternessof spirit rose up in his face and twisted his mouth into a snarl."Look here, Grief, what's the good of playing with me that way? Youknow, and I know you know. Let it go at that. I _have_ sold out, and I_am_ getting away. And what are you going to do about it?"Grief shrugged his shoulders, and no hint of resolve shadowed itself inhis own face. His expression was as of one in a quandary."There's no law here," Griffiths pressed home his advantage. "Tulagi isa hundred and fifty miles away. I've got my clearance papers, and I'mon my own boat. There's nothing to stop me from sailing. You've got noright to stop me just because I owe you a little money. And by God! youcan't stop me. Put that in your pipe."The look of pained surprise on Grief's face deepened."You mean you're going to cheat me out of that twelve hundred,Griffiths?""That's just about the size of it, old man. And calling hard names won'thelp any. There's the wind coming. You'd better get overside before Ipull out, or I'll tow your canoe under.""Really, Griffiths, you sound almost right. I can't stop you." Grieffumbled in the pouch that hung on his revolver-belt and pulled out acrumpled official-looking paper. "But maybe this will stop you. And it'ssomething for _your_ pipe. Smoke up.""What is it?""An admiralty warrant. Running to the New Hebrides won't save you. Itcan be served anywhere."Griffiths hesitated and swallowed, when he had finished glancing at thedocument. With knit brows he pondered this new phase of the situation.Then, abruptly, as he looked up, his face relaxed into all frankness."You were cleverer than I thought, old man," he said. "You've got mehip and thigh. I ought to have known better than to try and beat you.Jacobsen told me I couldn't, and I wouldn't listen to him. But he wasright, and so are you. I've got the money below. Come on down and we'llsettle."He started to go down, then stepped aside to let his visitor precedehim, at the same time glancing seaward to where the dark flaw of windwas quickening the water."Heave short," he told the mate. "Get up sail and stand ready to breakout."As Grief sat down on the edge of the mate's bunk, close against andfacing the tiny table, he noticed the butt of a revolver just projectingfrom under the pillow. On the table, which hung on hinges from thefor'ard bulkhead, were pen and ink, also a battered log-book."Oh, I don't mind being caught in a dirty trick," Griffiths was sayingdefiantly. "I've been in the tropics too long. I'm a sick man, a damnsick man. And the whiskey, and the sun, and the fever have made me sickin morals, too. Nothing's too mean and low for me now, and I canunderstand why the niggers eat each other, and take heads, and suchthings. I could do it myself. So I call trying to do you out of thatsmall account a pretty mild trick. Wisht I could offer you a drink."Grief made no reply, and the other busied himself in attempting tounlock a large and much-dented cash-box. From on deck came falsettocries and the creak and rattle of blocks as the black crew swung upmainsail and driver. Grief watched a large cockroach crawling over thegreasy paintwork. Griffiths, with an oath of irritation, carried thecash-box to the companion-steps for better light. Here, on his feet, andbending over the box, his back to his visitor, his hands shot out tothe rifle that stood beside the steps, and at the same moment he whirledabout."Now don't you move a muscle," he commanded.Grief smiled, elevated his eyebrows quizzically, and obeyed. His lefthand rested on the bunk beside him; his right hand lay on the table.His revolver hung on his right hip in plain sight. But in his mind wasrecollection of the other revolver under the pillow."Huh!" Griffiths sneered. "You've got everybody in the Solomonshypnotized, but let me tell you you ain't got me. Now I'm going to throwyou off my vessel, along with your admiralty warrant, but first you'vegot to do something. Lift up that log-book."The other glanced curiously at the log-book, but did not move."I tell you I'm a sick man, Grief; and I'd as soon shoot you as smash acockroach. Lift up that log-book, I say."Sick he did look, his lean face working nervously with the rage thatpossessed him. Grief lifted the book and set it aside. Beneath lay awritten sheet of tablet paper."Read it," Griffiths commanded. "Read it aloud."Grief obeyed; but while he read, the fingers of his left hand began aninfinitely slow and patient crawl toward the butt of the weapon underthe pillow."On board the ketch Willi-Waw, Bombi Bight, Island of Anna, SolomonIslands," he read. "Know all men by these presents that I do hereby signoff and release in full, for due value received, all debts whatsoeverowing to me by Harrison J. Griffiths, who has this day paid to me twelvehundred pounds sterling.""With that receipt in my hands," Griffiths grinned, "your admiraltywarrant's not worth the paper it's written on. Sign it.""It won't do any good, Griffiths," Grief said. "A document signed undercompulsion won't hold before the law.""In that case, what objection have you to signing it then?""Oh, none at all, only that I might save you heaps of trouble by notsigning it."Grief's fingers had gained the revolver, and, while he talked, with hisright hand he played with the pen and with his left began slowly andimperceptibly drawing the weapon to his side. As his hand finally closedupon it, second finger on trigger and forefinger laid past the cylinderand along the barrel, he wondered what luck he would have at left-handedsnap-shooting."Don't consider me," Griffiths gibed. "And just remember Jacobsen willtestify that he saw me pay the money over. Now sign, sign in full, atthe bottom, David Grief, and date it."From on deck came the jar of sheet-blocks and the rat-tat-tat ofthe reef-points against the canvas. In the cabin they could feel the_Willi-Waw_ heel, swing into the wind, and right. David Grief stillhesitated. From for'ard came the jerking rattle of headsail halyardsthrough the sheaves. The little vessel heeled, and through the cabinwalls came the gurgle and wash of water."Get a move on!" Griffiths cried. "The anchor's out."The muzzle of the rifle, four feet away, was bearing directly on him,when Grief resolved to act. The rifle wavered as Griffiths kept hisbalance in the uncertain puffs of the first of the wind. Grief tookadvantage of the wavering, made as if to sign the paper, and at the sameinstant, like a cat, exploded into swift and intricate action. As heducked low and leaped forward with his body, his left hand flashed fromunder the screen of the table, and so accurately-timed was the singlestiff pull on the self-cocking trigger that the cartridge discharged asthe muzzle came forward. Not a whit behind was Griffiths. The muzzleof his weapon dropped to meet the ducking body, and, shot at snapdirection, rifle and revolver went off simultaneously.Grief felt the sting and sear of a bullet across the skin of hisshoulder, and knew that his own shot had missed. His forward rushcarried him to Griffiths before another shot could be fired, both ofwhose arms, still holding the rifle, he locked with a low tackle aboutthe body. He shoved the revolver muzzle, still in his left hand, deepinto the other's abdomen. Under the press of his anger and the sting ofhis abraded skin, Grief's finger was lifting the hammer, when the waveof anger passed and he recollected himself. Down the companion-way cameindignant cries from the Gooma boys in his canoe.Everything was happening in seconds. There was apparently no pause inhis actions as he gathered Griffiths in his arms and carried him up thesteep steps in a sweeping rush. Out into the blinding glare of sunshinehe came. A black stood grinning at the wheel, and the _Willi-Waw_,heeled over from the wind, was foaming along. Rapidly dropping asternwas his Gooma canoe. Grief turned his head. From amidships, revolver inhand, the mate was springing toward him. With two jumps, still holdingthe helpless Griffiths, Grief leaped to the rail and overboard.Both men were grappled together as they went down; but Grief, witha quick updraw of his knees to the other's chest, broke the grip andforced him down. With both feet on Griffiths's shoulder, he forced himstill deeper, at the same time driving himself to the surface. Scarcelyhad his head broken into the sunshine when two splashes of water, inquick succession and within a foot of his face, advertised that Jacobsenknew how to handle a revolver. There was a chance for no third shot, forGrief, filling his lungs with air, sank down. Under water he struckout, nor did he come up till he saw the canoe and the bubbling paddlesoverhead. As he climbed aboard, the _Wlli-Waw_ went into the wind tocome about."Washee-washee!" Grief cried to his boys. "You fella make-um beach quickfella time!"In all shamelessness, he turned his back on the battle and ran forcover. The _Willi-Waw_, compelled to deaden way in order to pick up itscaptain, gave Grief his chance for a lead. The canoe struck the beachfull-tilt, with every paddle driving, and they leaped out and ran acrossthe sand for the trees. But before they gained the shelter, three timesthe sand kicked into puffs ahead of them. Then they dove into the greensafety of the jungle.Grief watched the _Willi-Waw_ haul up close, go out the passage, thenslack its sheets as it headed south with the wind abeam. As it went outof sight past the point he could see the topsail being broken out. Oneof the Gooma boys, a black, nearly fifty years of age, hideously marredand scarred by skin diseases and old wounds, looked up into his face andgrinned."My word," the boy commented, "that fella skipper too much cross alongyou."Grief laughed, and led the way back across the sand to the canoe.IIIHow many millions David Grief was worth no man in the Solomons knew, forhis holdings and ventures were everywhere in the great South Pacific.From Samoa to New Guinea and even to the north of the Line hisplantations were scattered. He possessed pearling concessions in thePaumotus. Though his name did not appear, he was in truth the Germancompany that traded in the French Marquesas. His trading stations werein strings in all the groups, and his vessels that operated them weremany. He owned atolls so remote and tiny that his smallest schooners andketches visited the solitary agents but once a year.In Sydney, on Castlereagh Street, his offices occupied three floors.But he was rarely in those offices. He preferred always to be on the goamongst the islands, nosing out new investments, inspecting and shakingup old ones, and rubbing shoulders with fun and adventure in a thousandstrange guises. He bought the wreck of the great steamship _Gavonne_for a song, and in salving it achieved the impossible and cleaned up aquarter of a million. In the Louisiades he planted the first commercialrubber, and in Bora-Bora he ripped out the South Sea cotton and put thejolly islanders at the work of planting cacao. It was he who took thedeserted island of Lallu-Ka, colonized it with Polynesians from theOntong-Java Atoll, and planted four thousand acres to cocoanuts. And itwas he who reconciled the warring chief-stocks of Tahiti and swung thegreat deal of the phosphate island of Hikihu.His own vessels recruited his contract labour. They brought SantaCruz boys to the New Hebrides, New Hebrides boys to the Banks, and thehead-hunting cannibals of Malaita to the plantations of New Georgia.From Tonga to the Gilberts and on to the far Louisiades his recruiterscombed the islands for labour. His keels plowed all ocean stretches. Heowned three steamers on regular island runs, though he rarely elected totravel in them, preferring the wilder and more primitive way of wind andsail.At least forty years of age, he looked no more than thirty. Yetbeachcombers remembered his advent among the islands a score of yearsbefore, at which time the yellow mustache was already budding silkily onhis lip. Unlike other white men in the tropics, he was there because heliked it. His protective skin pigmentation was excellent. He hadbeen born to the sun. One he was in ten thousand in the matter ofsun-resistance. The invisible and high-velocity light waves failed tobore into him. Other white men were pervious. The sun drove throughtheir skins, ripping and smashing tissues and nerves, till they becamesick in mind and body, tossed most of the Decalogue overboard, descendedto beastliness, drank themselves into quick graves, or survived sosavagely that war vessels were sometimes sent to curb their license.But David Grief was a true son of the sun, and he flourished in all itsways. He merely became browner with the passing of the years, thoughin the brown was the hint of golden tint that glows in the skin of thePolynesian. Yet his blue eyes retained their blue, his mustache itsyellow, and the lines of his face were those which had persisted throughthe centuries in his English race. English he was in blood, yet thosethat thought they knew contended he was at least American born. Unlikethem, he had not come out to the South Seas seeking hearth and saddle ofhis own. In fact, he had brought hearth and saddle with him. His adventhad been in the Paumotus. He arrived on board a tiny schooner yacht,master and owner, a youth questing romance and adventure along thesun-washed path of the tropics. He also arrived in a hurricane, thegiant waves of which deposited him and yacht and all in the thick of acocoanut grove three hundred yards beyond the surf. Six months later hewas rescued by a pearling cutter. But the sun had got into his blood.At Tahiti, instead of taking a steamer home, he bought a schooner,outfitted her with trade-goods and divers, and went for a cruise throughthe Dangerous Archipelago.As the golden tint burned into his face it poured molten out of the endsof his fingers. His was the golden touch, but he played the game, notfor the gold, but for the game's sake. It was a man's game, the roughcontacts and fierce give and take of the adventurers of his own bloodand of half the bloods of Europe and the rest of the world, and it was agood game; but over and beyond was his love of all the other thingsthat go to make up a South Seas rover's life--the smell of the reef;the infinite exquisiteness of the shoals of living coral in themirror-surfaced lagoons; the crashing sunrises of raw colours spreadwith lawless cunning; the palm-tufted islets set in turquoise deeps;the tonic wine of the trade-winds; the heave and send of the orderly,crested seas; the moving deck beneath his feet, the straining canvasoverhead; the flower-garlanded, golden-glowing men and maids ofPolynesia, half-children and half-gods; and even the howling savages ofMelanesia, head-hunters and man-eaters, half-devil and all beast.And so, favoured child of the sun, out of munificence of energy andsheer joy of living, he, the man of many millions, forbore on his farway to play the game with Harrison J. Griffiths for a paltry sum. It washis whim, his desire, his expression of self and of the sun-warmth thatpoured through him. It was fun, a joke, a problem, a bit of play onwhich life was lightly hazarded for the joy of the playing.IVThe early morning found the _Wonder_ laying close-hauled along the coastof Guadalcanal She moved lazily through the water under the dying breathof the land breeze. To the east, heavy masses of clouds promised arenewal of the southeast trades, accompanied by sharp puffs and rainsqualls. Ahead, laying along the coast on the same course as the_Wonder_, and being slowly overtaken, was a small ketch. It was not the_Willi-Waw_, however, and Captain Ward, on the _Wonder_, putting downhis glasses, named it the _Kauri_.Grief, just on deck from below, sighed regretfully."If it had only been the _Willi-Waw_" he said."You do hate to be beaten," Denby, the supercargo, remarkedsympathetically."I certainly do." Grief paused and laughed with genuine mirth. "It's myfirm conviction that Griffiths is a rogue, and that he treated me quitescurvily yesterday. 'Sign,' he says, 'sign in full, at the bottom, anddate it,' And Jacobsen, the little rat, stood in with him. It was rankpiracy, the days of Bully Hayes all over again.""If you weren't my employer, Mr. Grief, I'd like to give you a piece ofmy mind," Captain Ward broke in."Go on and spit it out," Grief encouraged."Well, then--" The captain hesitated and cleared his throat. "With allthe money you've got, only a fool would take the risk you did with thosetwo curs. What do you do it for?""Honestly, I don't know, Captain. I just want to, I suppose. And can yougive any better reason for anything you do?""You'll get your bally head shot off some fine day," Captain Wardgrowled in answer, as he stepped to the binnacle and took the bearingof a peak which had just thrust its head through the clouds that coveredGuadalcanar.The land breeze strengthened in a last effort, and the _Wonder_,slipping swiftly through the water, ranged alongside the _Kauri_ andbegan to go by. Greetings flew back and forth, then David Grief calledout:"Seen anything of the _Willi-Waw_?"The captain, slouch-hatted and barelegged, with a rolling twist hitchedthe faded blue _lava-lava_ tighter around his waist and spat tobaccojuice overside."Sure," he answered. "Griffiths lay at Savo last night, taking on pigsand yams and filling his water-tanks. Looked like he was going for along cruise, but he said no. Why? Did you want to see him?""Yes; but if you see him first don't tell him you've seen me."The captain nodded and considered, and walked for'ard on his own deck tokeep abreast of the faster vessel."Say!" he called. "Jacobsen told me they were coming down this afternoonto Gabera. Said they were going to lay there to-night and take on sweetpotatoes.""Gabera has the only leading lights in the Solomons," Grief said, whenhis schooner had drawn well ahead. "Is that right, Captain Ward?"The captain nodded."And the little bight just around the point on this side, it's a rottenanchorage, isn't it?""No anchorage. All coral patches and shoals, and a bad surf. That'swhere the _Molly_ went to pieces three years ago."Grief stared straight before him with lustreless eyes for a full minute,as if summoning some vision to his inner sight. Then the corners of hiseyes wrinkled and the ends of his yellow mustache lifted in a smile."We'll anchor at Gabera," he said. "And run in close to the little bightthis side. I want you to drop me in a whaleboat as you go by. Also,give me six boys, and serve out rifles. I'll be back on board beforemorning."The captain's face took on an expression of suspicion, which swiftlyslid into one of reproach."Oh, just a little fun, skipper," Grief protested with the apologeticair of a schoolboy caught in mischief by an elder.Captain Ward grunted, but Denby was all alertness."I'd like to go along, Mr. Grief," he said.Grief nodded consent."Bring some axes and bush-knives," he said. "And, oh, by the way, acouple of bright lanterns. See they've got oil in them."VAn hour before sunset the _Wonder_ tore by the little bight. The windhad freshened, and a lively sea was beginning to make. The shoalstoward the beach were already white with the churn of water, while thosefarther out as yet showed no more sign than of discoloured water. Asthe schooner went into the wind and backed her jib and staysail thewhaleboat was swung out. Into it leaped six breech-clouted Santa Cruzboys, each armed with a rifle. Denby, carrying the lanterns, droppedinto the stern-sheets. Grief, following, paused on the rail."Pray for a dark night, skipper," he pleaded."You'll get it," Captain Ward answered. "There's no moon anyway, andthere won't be any sky. She'll be a bit squally, too."The forecast sent a radiance into Grief's face, making more pronouncedthe golden tint of his sunburn. He leaped down beside the supercargo."Cast off!" Captain Ward ordered. "Draw the headsails! Put your wheelover! There! Steady! Take that course!"The _Wonder_ filled away and ran on around the point for Gabera, whilethe whaleboat, pulling six oars and steered by Grief, headed for thebeach. With superb boatmanship he threaded the narrow, tortuous channelwhich no craft larger than a whaleboat could negotiate, until the shoalsand patches showed seaward and they grounded on the quiet, ripplingbeach.The next hour was filled with work. Moving about among the wildcocoanuts and jungle brush, Grief selected the trees."Chop this fella tree; chop that fella tree," he told his blacks. "Nochop that other fella," he said, with a shake of head.In the end, a wedge-shaped segment of jungle was cleared. Near to thebeach remained one long palm. At the apex of the wedge stood another.Darkness was falling as the lanterns were lighted, carried up the twotrees, and made fast."That outer lantern is too high." David Grief studied it critically."Put it down about ten feet, Denby."VIThe _Willi-Waw_ was tearing through the water with a bone in her teeth,for the breath of the passing squall was still strong. The blacks wereswinging up the big mainsail, which had been lowered on the run when thepuff was at its height. Jacobsen, superintending the operation, orderedthem to throw the halyards down on deck and stand by, then went for'ardon the lee-bow and joined Griffiths. Both men stared with wide-strainedeyes at the blank wall of darkness through which they were flying, theirears tense for the sound of surf on the invisible shore. It was by thissound that they were for the moment steering.The wind fell lighter, the scud of clouds thinned and broke, and in thedim glimmer of starlight loomed the jungle-clad coast. Ahead, and wellon the lee-bow, appeared a jagged rock-point. Both men strained to it."Amboy Point," Griffiths announced. "Plenty of water close up. Take thewheel, Jacobsen, till we set a course. Get a move on!"Running aft, barefooted and barelegged, the rainwater dripping from hisscant clothing, the mate displaced the black at the wheel."How's she heading?" Griffiths called."South-a-half-west!""Let her come up south-by-west! Got it?""Right on it!"Griffiths considered the changed relation of Amboy Point to the_Willi-Waw_'s course."And a-half-west!" he cried."And a-half-west!" came the answer. "Right on it!""Steady! That'll do!""Steady she is!" Jacobsen turned the wheel over to the savage. "Yousteer good fella, savve?" he warned. "No good fella, I knock your damnblack head off."Again he went for'ard and joined the other, and again the cloud-scudthickened, the star-glimmer vanished, and the wind rose and screamed inanother squall."Watch that mainsail!" Griffiths yelled in the mate's ear, at the sametime studying the ketch's behaviour.Over she pressed, and lee-rail under, while he measured the weight ofthe wind and quested its easement. The tepid sea-water, with here andthere tiny globules of phosphorescence, washed about his ankles andknees. The wind screamed a higher note, and every shroud and staysharply chorused an answer as the _Willi-Waw_ pressed farther over anddown."Down mainsail!" Griffiths yelled, springing to the peak-halyards,thrusting away the black who held on, and casting off the turn.Jacobsen, at the throat-halyards, was performing the like office. Thebig sail rattled down, and the blacks, with shouts and yells, threwthemselves on the battling canvas. The mate, finding one skulking in thedarkness, flung his bunched knuckles into the creature's face and drovehim to his work.The squall held at its high pitch, and under her small canvas the_Willi-Waw_ still foamed along. Again the two men stood for'ard andvainly watched in the horizontal drive of rain."We're all right," Griffiths said. "This rain won't last. We can holdthis course till we pick up the lights. Anchor in thirteen fathoms.You'd better overhaul forty-five on a night like this. After that getthe gaskets on the mainsail. We won't need it."Half an hour afterward his weary eyes were rewarded by a glimpse of twolights."There they are, Jacobsen. I'll take the wheel. Run down thefore-staysail and stand by to let go. Make the niggers jump."Aft, the spokes of the wheel in his hands, Griffiths held the coursetill the two lights came in line, when he abruptly altered and headeddirectly in for them. He heard the tumble and roar of the surf, butdecided it was farther away--as it should be, at Gabera.He heard the frightened cry of the mate, and was grinding the wheel downwith all his might, when the _Willi-Waw_ struck. At the same instanther mainmast crashed over the bow. Five wild minutes followed. All handsheld on while the hull upheaved and smashed down on the brittlecoral and the warm seas swept over them. Grinding and crunching, the_Willi-Waw_ worked itself clear over the shoal patch and came solidly torest in the comparatively smooth and shallow channel beyond.Griffiths sat down on the edge of the cabin, head bowed on chest, insilent wrath and bitterness. Once he lifted his face to glare at the twowhite lights, one above the other and perfectly in line."There they are," he said. "And this isn't Gabera. Then what the hell isit?"Though the surf still roared and across the shoal flung its sprayand upper wash over them, the wind died down and the stars came out.Shoreward came the sound of oars."What have you had?--an earthquake?" Griffiths called out. "The bottom'sall changed. I've anchored here a hundred times in thirteen fathoms. Isthat you, Wilson?"A whaleboat came alongside, and a man climbed over the rail. In thefaint light Griffiths found an automatic Colt's thrust into his face,and, looking up, saw David Grief."No, you never anchored here before," Grief laughed. "Gabera's justaround the point, where I'll be as soon as I've collected that littlesum of twelve hundred pounds. We won't bother for the receipt. I've yournote here, and I'll just return it.""You did this!" Griffiths cried, springing to his feet in a sudden gustof rage. "You faked those leading lights! You've wrecked me, and by--""Steady! Steady!" Grief's voice was cool and menacing. "I'll trouble youfor that twelve hundred, please."To Griffiths, a vast impotence seemed to descend upon him. He wasoverwhelmed by a profound disgust--disgust for the sunlands and thesun-sickness, for the futility of all his endeavour, for this blue-eyed,golden-tinted, superior man who defeated him on all his ways."Jacobsen," he said, "will you open the cash-box and pay this--thisbloodsucker--twelve hundred pounds?"