The Terrible Solomons

by Jack London

There is no gainsaying that the Solomons are a hard-bitten bunch of islands.On the other hand, there are worse places in the world. But to the new chumwho has no constitutional understanding of men and life in the rough, theSolomons may indeed prove terrible.It is true that fever and dysentery are perpetually on the walk-about, thatloathsome skin diseases abound, that the air is saturated with a poison thatbites into every pore, cut, or abrasion and plants malignant ulcers, and thatmany strong men who escape dying there return as wrecks to their owncountries. It is also true that the natives of the Solomons are a wild lot,with a hearty appetite for human flesh and a fad for collecting human heads.Their highest instinct of sportsmanship is to catch a man with his back turnedand to smite him a cunning blow with a tomahawk that severs the spinal columnat the base of the brain. It is equally true that on some islands, such asMalaita, the profit and loss account of social intercourse is calculated inhomicides. Heads are a medium of exchange, and white heads are extremelyvaluable. Very often a dozen villages make a jack-pot, which they fatten moonby moon, against the time when some brave warrior presents a white man's head,fresh and gory, and claims the pot.All the foregoing is quite true, and yet there are white men who have lived inthe Solomons a score of years and who feel homesick when they go away fromthem. A man needs only to be careful-- and lucky--to live a long time in theSolomons; but he must also be of the right sort. He must have the hallmark ofthe inevitable white man stamped upon his soul. He must be inevitable. He musthave a certain grand carelessness of odds, a certain colossalself-satisfaction, and a racial egotism that convinces him that one white isbetter than a thousand niggers every day in the week, and that on Sunday he isable to clean out two thousand niggers. For such are the things that have madethe white man inevitable. Oh, and one other thing--the white man who wishes tobe inevitable, must not merely despise the lesser breeds and think a lot ofhimself; he must also fail to be too long on imagination. He must notunderstand too well the instincts, customs, and mental processes of theblacks, the yellows, and the browns; for it is not in such fashion that thewhite race has tramped its royal road around the world.Bertie Arkwright was not inevitable. He was too sensitive, too finely strung,and he possessed too much imagination. The world was too much with him. Heprojected himself too quiveringly into his environment. Therefore, the lastplace in the world for him to come was the Solomons. He did not come,expecting to stay. A five weeks' stop-over between steamers, he decided, wouldsatisfy the call of the primitive he felt thrumming the strings of his being.At least, so he told the lady tourists on the Makembo, though in differentterms; and they worshipped him as a hero, for they were lady tourists and theywould know only the safety of the steamer's deck as she threaded her waythrough the Solomons.There was another man on board, of whom the ladies took no notice. He was alittle shriveled wisp of a man, with a withered skin the color of mahogany.His name on the passenger list does not matter, but his other name, CaptainMalu, was a name for niggers to conjure with, and to scare naughtypickaninnies to righteousness from New Hanover to the New Hebrides. He hadfarmed savages and savagery, and from fever and hardship, the crack of Snidersand the lash of the overseers, had wrested five millions of money in the formof beche-de-mer, sandalwood, pearl-shell and turtle-shell, ivory nuts andcopra, grasslands, trading stations, and plantations. Captain Malu's littlefinger, which was broken, had more inevitableness in it than BertieArkwright's whole carcass. But then, the lady tourists had nothing by which tojudge save appearances, and Bertie certainly was a fine-looking man.Bertie talked with Captain Malu in the smoking room, confiding to him hisintention of seeing life red and bleeding in the Solomons. Captain Malu agreedthat the intention was ambitious and honorable. It was not until several dayslater that he became interested in Bertie, when that young adventurer insistedon showing him an automatic 44-caliber pistol. Bertie explained the mechanismand demonstrated by slipping a loaded magazine up the hollow butt."It is so simple," he said. He shot the outer barrel back along the inner one."That loads it and cocks it, you see. And then all I have to do is pull thetrigger, eight times, as fast as I can quiver my finger. See that safetyclutch. That's what I like about it. It is safe. It is positively fool-proof."He slipped out the magazine. "You see how safe it is."As he held it in his hand, the muzzle came in line with Captain Malu'sstomach. Captain Malu's blue eyes looked at it unswervingly."Would you mind pointing it in some other direction?" he asked."It's perfectly safe," Bertie assured him. "I withdrew the magazine. It's notloaded now, you know.""A gun is always loaded.""But this one isn't.""Turn it away just the same."Captain Malu's voice was flat and metallic and low, but his eyes never leftthe muzzle until the line of it was drawn past him and away from him."I'll bet a fiver it isn't loaded," Bertie proposed warmly.The other shook his head."Then I'll show you."Bertie started to put the muzzle to his own temple with the evident intentionof pulling the trigger."Just a second," Captain Malu said quietly, reaching out his hand. "Let melook at it."He pointed it seaward and pulled the trigger. A heavy explosion followed,instantaneous with the sharp click of the mechanism that flipped a hot andsmoking cartridge sidewise along the deck.Bertie's jaw dropped in amazement."I slipped the barrel back once, didn't I?" he explained. It was silly of me,I must say."He giggled flabbily, and sat down in a steamer chair. The blood had ebbed fromhis face, exposing dark circles under his eyes. His hands were trembling andunable to guide the shaking cigarette to his lips. The world was too much withhim, and he saw himself with dripping brains prone upon the deck"Really," he said, ". . . really.""It's a pretty weapon," said Captain Malu, returning the automatic to him.The Commissioner was on board the Makembo, returning from Sydney, and by hispermission a stop was made at Ugi to land a missionary. And at Ugi lay theketch Arla, Captain Hansen, skipper. Now the Arla was one of many vesselsowned by Captain Malu, and it was at his suggestion and by his invitation thatBertie went aboard the Arla as guest for a four days' recruiting cruise on thecoast of Malaita. Thereafter the Arla would drop him at Reminge Plantation(also owned by Captain Malu), where Bertie could remain for a week, and thenbe sent over to Tulagi, the seat of government, where he would become theCommissioner's guest. Captain Malu was responsible for two other suggestions,which given, he disappears from this narrative. One was to Captain Hansen, theother to Mr. Harriwell, manager of Reminge Plantation. Both suggestions weresimilar in tenor, namely, to give Mr. Bertram Arkwright an insight into therawness and redness of life in the Solomons. Also, it is whispered thatCaptain Malu mentioned that a case of Scotch would be coincidental with anyparticularly gorgeous insight Mr. Arkwright might receive. . . . .. . . . . . . ."Yes, Swartz always was too pig-headed. You see, he took four of his boat'screw to Tulagi to be flogged--officially, you know--then started back withthem in the whaleboat. It was pretty squally, and the boat capsized justoutside. Swartz was the only one drowned. Of course, it was an accident.""Was it? Really?" Bertie asked, only half-interested, staring hard at theblack man at the wheel.Ugi had dropped astern, and the Arla was sliding along through a summer seatoward the wooded ranges of Malaita. The helmsman who so attracted Bertie'seyes sported a ten penny nail, stuck skewerwise through his nose. About hisneck was a string of pants buttons. Thrust through holes in his ears were acan opener, the broken handle of a toothbrush, a clay pipe, the brass wheel ofan alarm clock, and several Winchester rifle cartridges.On his chest, suspended from around his neck hung the half of a china plate.Some forty similarly appareled blacks lay about the deck, fifteen of whichwere boat's crew, the remainder being fresh labor recruits."Of course it was an accident," spoke up the Arla's mate, Jacobs, a slender,dark-eyed man who looked more a professor than a sailor. "Johnny Bedip nearlyhad the same kind of accident. He was bringing back several from a flogging,when they capsized him. But he knew how to swim as well as they, and two ofthem were drowned. He used a boat stretcher and a revolver. Of course it wasan accident.""Quite common, them accidents," remarked the skipper. "You see that man at thewheel, Mr. Arkwright? He's a man eater. Six months ago, he and the rest of theboat's crew drowned the then captain of the Arla. They did it on deck, sir,right aft there by the mizzen-traveler.""The deck was in a shocking state," said the mate."Do I understand--?" Bertie began."Yes, just that," said Captain Hansen. "It was an accidental drowning.""But on deck--?""Just so. I don't mind telling you, in confidence, of course, that they usedan axe.""This present crew of yours?"Captain Hansen nodded."The other skipper always was too careless," explained the mate. He but justturned his back, when they let him have it.""We haven't any show down here," was the skipper's complaint. "The governmentprotects a nigger against a white every time. You can't shoot first. You'vegot to give the nigger first shot, or else the government calls it murder andyou go to Fiji. That's why there's so many drowning accidents."Dinner was called, and Bertie and the skipper went below, leaving the mate towatch on deck."Keep an eye out for that black devil, Auiki," was the skipper's partingcaution. "I haven't liked his looks for several days.""Right O," said the mate.Dinner was part way along, and the skipper was in the middle of his story ofthe cutting out of the Scottish Chiefs."Yes," he was saying, "she was the finest vessel on the coast. But when shemissed stays, and before ever she hit the reef, the canoes started for her.There were five white men, a crew of twenty Santa Cruz boys and Samoans, andonly the supercargo escaped. Besides, there were sixty recruits. They were allkai-kai'd. Kai-kai?--oh, I beg your pardon. I mean they were eaten. Then therewas the James Edwards, a dandy-rigged--"But at that moment there was a sharp oath from the mate on deck and a chorusof savage cries. A revolver went off three times, and then was heard a loudsplash. Captain Hansen had sprung up the companionway on the instant, andBertie's eyes had been fascinated by a glimpse of him drawing his revolver ashe sprang.Bertie went up more circumspectly, hesitating before he put his head above thecompanionway slide. But nothing happened. The mate was shaking withexcitement, his revolver in his hand. Once he startled, and half-jumpedaround, as if danger threatened his back."One of the natives fell overboard," he was saying, in a queer tense voice."He couldn't swim.""Who was it?" the skipper demanded."Auiki," was the answer."But I say, you know, I heard shots," Bertie said, in trembling eagerness, forhe scented adventure, and adventure that was happily over with.The mate whirled upon him, snarling:"It"s a damned lie. There ain't been a shot fired. The nigger fell overboard."Captain Hansen regarded Bertie with unblinking, lack-luster eyes."I--I thought--" Bertie was beginning."Shots?" said Captain Hansen, dreamily. "Shots? Did you hear any shots, Mr.Jacobs?""Not a shot," replied Mr. Jacobs.The skipper looked at his guest triumphantly, and said:"Evidently an accident. Let us go down, Mr. Arkwright, and finish dinner."Bertie slept that night in the captain's cabin, a tiny stateroom off the maincabin. The for'ard bulkhead was decorated with a stand of rifles. Over thebunk were three more rifles. Under the bunk was a big drawer, which, when hepulled it out, he found filled with ammunition, dynamite, and several boxes ofdetonators. He elected to take the settee on the opposite side. Lyingconspicuously on the small table, was the Arla's log. Bertie did not knowthat it had been especially prepared for the occasion by Captain Malu, and heread therein how on September 21, two boat's crew had fallen overboard andbeen drowned. Bertie read between the lines and knew better. He read how theArla's whale boat had been bushwhacked at Su'u and had lost three men; of howthe skipper discovered the cook stewing human flesh on the galley fire--fleshpurchased by the boat's crew ashore in Fui; of how an accidental discharge ofdynamite, while signaling, had killed another boat's crew; of night attacks;ports fled from between the dawns; attacks by bushmen in mangrove swamps andby fleets of salt-water men in the larger passages. One item that occurredwith monotonous frequency was death by dysentery. He noticed with alarm thattwo white men had so died--guests, like himself, on the Arla."I say, you know," Bertie said next day to Captain Hansen. "I've been glancingthrough your log."The skipper displayed quick vexation that the log had been left lying about."And all that dysentery, you know, that's all rot, just like the accidentaldrownings," Bertie continued. "What does dysentery really stand for?"The skipper openly admired his guest's acumen, stiffened himself to makeindignant denial, then gracefully surrendered."You see, it's like this, Mr. Arkwright. These islands have got a bad enoughname as it is. It's getting harder every day to sign on white men. Suppose aman is killed. The company has to pay through the nose for another man to takethe job. But if the man merely dies of sickness, it's all right. The new chumsdon't mind disease. What they draw the line at is being murdered. I thoughtthe skipper of the Arla had died of dysentery when I took his billet. Then itwas too late. I'd signed the contract.""Besides," said Mr. Jacobs, "there's altogether too many accidental drowningsanyway. It don't look right. It's the fault of the government. A white manhasn't a chance to defend himself from the niggers.""Yes, look at the Princess and that Yankee mate," the skipper took up thetale. "She carried five white men besides a government agent. The captain, theagent, and the supercargo were ashore in the two boats. They were killed tothe last man. The mate and boson, with about fifteen of the crew--Samoans andTongans--were on board. A crowd of niggers came off from shore. First thingthe mate knew, the boson and the crew were killed in the first rush. The mategrabbed three cartridge belts and two Winchesters and skinned up to thecross-trees. He was the sole survivor, and you can't blame him for being mad.He pumped one rifle till it got so hot he couldn't hold it, then he pumped theother. The deck was black with niggers. He cleaned them out. He dropped themas they went over the rail, and he dropped them as fast as they picked uptheir paddles. Then they jumped into the water and started to swim for it, andbeing mad, he got half a dozen more. And what did he get for it?""Seven years in Fiji," snapped the mate."The government said he wasn't justified in shooting after they'd taken to thewater," the skipper explained."And that's why they die of dysentery nowadays," the mate added."Just fancy," said Bertie, as he felt a longing for the cruise to be over.Later on in the day he interviewed the black who had been pointed out to himas a cannibal. This fellow's name was Sumasai. He had spent three years on aQueensland plantation. He had been to Samoa, and Fiji, and Sydney; and as aboat's crew had been on recruiting schooners through New Britain, New Ireland,New Guinea, and the Admiralties. Also, he was a wag, and he had taken a lineon his skipper's conduct. Yes, he had eaten many men. How many? He could notremember the tally. Yes, white men, too; they were very good, unless they weresick. He had once eaten a sick one."My word!" he cried, at the recollection. "Me sick plenty along him. 'my bellywalk about too much."Bertie shuddered, and asked about heads. Yes, Sumasai had several hiddenashore, in good condition, sun-dried, and smoke-cured. One was of the captainof a schooner. It had long whiskers. He would sell it for two quid. Blackmen's heads he would sell for one quid. He had some pickaninny heads, in poorcondition, that he would let go for ten bob.Five minutes afterward, Bertie found himself sitting on the companionway-slidealongside a black with a horrible skin disease. He sheered off, and on inquirywas told that it was leprosy. He hurried below and washed himself withantiseptic soap. He took many antiseptic washes in the course of the day, forevery native on board was afflicted with malignant ulcers of one sort oranother.As the Arla drew in to an anchorage in the midst of mangrove swamps, a doublerow of barbed wire was stretched around above her rail. That looked likebusiness, and when Bertie saw the shore canoes alongside, armed with spears,bows and arrows, and Sniders, he wished more earnestly than ever that thecruise was over.That evening the natives were slow in leaving the ship at sundown. A number ofthem checked the mate when he ordered them ashore. "Never mind, I'll fixthem," said Captain Hansen, diving below.When he cam back, he showed Bertie a stick of dynamite attached to a fishhook. Now it happens that a paper-wrapped bottle of chlorodyne with a piece ofharmless fuse projecting can fool anybody. It fooled Bertie, and it fooled thenatives. When Captain Hansen lighted the fuse and hooked the fish hook intothe tail end of a native's loin cloth, that native was smitten with so anardent a desire for the shore that he forgot to shed the loin cloth. Hestarted for'ard, the fuse sizzling and spluttering at his rear, the natives inhis path taking headers over the barbed wire at every jump. Bertie washorror-stricken. So was Captain Hansen. He had forgotten his twenty-fiverecruits, on each of which he had paid thirty shillings advance. They wentover the side along with the shore-dwelling folk and followed by him whotrailed the sizzling chlorodyne bottle.Bertie did not see the bottle go off; but the mate opportunely discharging astick of real dynamite aft where it would harm nobody, Bertie would have swornin any admiralty court to a nigger blown to flinders. The flight of thetwenty-five recruits had actually cost the Arla forty pounds, and, since theyhad taken to the bush, there was no hope of recovering them. The skipper andhis mate proceeded to drown their sorrow in cold tea.The cold tea was in whiskey bottles, so Bertie did not know it was cold teathey were mopping up. All he knew was that the two men got very drunk andargued eloquently and at length as to whether the exploded nigger should bereported as a case of dysentery or as an accidental drowning. When they snoredoff to sleep, he was the only white man left, and he kept a perilous watchtill dawn, in fear of an attack from shore and an uprising of the crew.Three more days the Arla spent on the coast, and three more nights the skipperand the mate drank overfondly of cold tea, leaving Bertie to keep the watch.They knew he could be depended upon, while he was equally certain that if helived, he would report their drunken conduct to Captain Malu. Then the Arladropped anchor at Reminge Plantation, on Guadalcanar, and Bertie landed on thebeach with a sigh of relief and shook hands with the manager. 'mr. Harriwellwas ready for him."Now you mustn't be alarmed if some of our fellows seem downcast," Mr.Harriwell said, having drawn him aside in confidence. "There's been talk of anoutbreak, and two or three suspicious signs I'm willing to admit, butpersonally I think it's all poppycock.""How--how many blacks have you on the plantation?" Bertie asked, with asinking heart."We're working four hundred just now," replied Mr. Harriwell, cheerfully; butthe three of us, with you, of course, and the skipper and mate of the Arla,can handle them all right."Bertie turned to meet one McTavish, the storekeeper, who scarcely acknowledgedthe introduction, such was his eagerness to present his resignation."It being that I'm a married man, Mr. Harriwell, I can't very well afford toremain on longer. Trouble is working up, as plain as the nose on your face.The niggers are going to break out, and there'll be another Hohono horrorhere.""What's a Hohono horror?" Bertie asked, after the storekeeper had beenpersuaded to remain until the end of the month."Oh, he means Hohono Plantation, on Ysabel," said the manager. "The niggerskilled the five white men ashore, captured the schooner, killed the captainand mate, and escaped in a body to Malaita. But I always said they werecareless on Hohono. They won't catch us napping here. Come along, Mr.Arkwright, and see our view from the veranda."Bertie was too busy wondering how he could get away to Tulagi to theCommissioner's house, to see much of the view. He was still wondering, when arifle exploded very near to him, behind his back. At the same moment his armwas nearly dislocated, so eagerly did Mr. Harriwell drag him indoors."I say, old man, that was a close shave," said the manager, pawing him over tosee if he had been hit. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. But it was broaddaylight, and I never dreamed."Bertie was beginning to turn pale."They got the other manager that way," McTavish vouchsafed. "And a dashed finechap he was. Blew his brains out all over the veranda. You noticed that darkstain there between the steps and the door?"Bertie was ripe for the cocktail which Mr. Harriwell pitched in and compoundedfor him; but before he could drink it, a man in riding trousers and putteesentered."What's the matter now?" the manager asked, after one look at the newcomer'sface. "Is the river up again?""River be blowed--it's the niggers. Stepped out of the cane grass, not a dozenfeet away, and whopped at me. It was a Snider, and he shot from the hip. Nowwhat I want to know is where'd he get that Snider?--Oh, I beg pardon. Glad toknow you, Mr. Arkwright.""Mr. Brown is my assistant," explained Mr. Harriwell. "And now let's have thatdrink.""But where'd he get that Snider?" Mr. Brown insisted. "I always objected tokeeping those guns on the premises.""They're still there," Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat.Mr. Brown smiled incredulously."Come along and see," said the manager.Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointedtriumphantly at a big packing case in a dusty corner."Well, then where did the beggar get that Snider?" harped Mr. Brown.But just then McTavish lifted the packing case. The manager started, then toreoff the lid. The case was empty. They gazed at one another in horrifiedsilence. Harriwell drooped wearily.Then McVeigh cursed."What I contended all along--the house-boys are not to be trusted.""It does look serious," Harriwell admitted, "but we'll come through it allright. What the sanguinary niggers need is a shaking up. Will you gentlemenplease bring your rifles to dinner, and will you, Mr. Brown, kindly prepareforty or fifty sticks of dynamite. 'make the fuses good and short. We'll givethem a lesson. And now, gentlemen, dinner is served."One thing that Bertie detested was rice and curry, so it happened that healone partook of an inviting omelet. He had quite finished his plate, whenHarriwell helped himself to the omelet. One mouthful he tasted, then spat outvociferously."That's the second time," McTavish announced ominously.Harriwell was still hawking and spitting."Second time, what?" Bertie quavered."Poison," was the answer. "That cook will be hanged yet.""That's the way the bookkeeper went out at Cape March," Brown spoke up. "Diedhorribly. They said on the Jessie that they heard him screaming three milesaway.""I'll put the cook in irons," sputtered Harriwell. "Fortunately we discoveredit in time."Bertie sat paralyzed. There was no color in his face. He attempted to speak,but only an inarticulate gurgle resulted. All eyed him anxiously."Don't say it, don't say it," McTavish cried in a tense voice."Yes, I ate it, plenty of it, a whole plateful!" Bertie cried explosively,like a diver suddenly regaining breath.The awful silence continued half a minute longer, and he read his fate intheir eyes."Maybe it wasn't poison after all," said Harriwell, dismally."Call in the cook," said Brown.In came the cook, a grinning black boy, nose-spiked and ear-plugged."Here, you, Wi-wi, what name that?" Harriwell bellowed, pointing accusingly atthe omelet.Wi-wi was very naturally frightened and embarrassed."Him good fella kai-kai," he murmured apologetically."Make him eat it," suggested McTavish. "That's a proper test."Harriwell filled a spoon with the stuff and jumped for the cook, who fled inpanic."That settles it," was Brown's solemn pronouncement. "He won't eat it.""Mr. Brown, will you please go and put the irons on him?" Harriwell turnedcheerfully to Bertie. "It's all right, old man, the Commissioner will dealwith him, and if you die, depend upon it, he will be hanged.""Don't think the government'll do it," objected McTavish."But gentlemen, gentlemen," Bertie cried. "In the meantime think of me."Harriwell shrugged his shoulders pityingly."Sorry, old man, but it's a native poison, and there are no known antidotesfor native poisons. Try and compose yourself and if--"Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse, andBrown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table."The cook's dead," he said. "Fever. A rather sudden attack.""I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for nativepoisons--""Except gin," said Brown.Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin bottle."Neat, man, neat," he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler two-thirds fullof the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the angry bite of it till thetears ran down his cheeks.Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out for him,and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and McTavish alsodoubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their voices. His appetitehad left him, and he took his own pulse stealthily under the table. There wasno question but what it was increasing, but he failed to ascribe it to the ginhe had taken. 'mcTavish, rifle in hand, went out on the veranda toreconnoiter."They're massing up at the cook-house," was his report. "And they've no end ofSniders. 'my idea is to sneak around on the other side and take them in flank.Strike the first blow, you know. Will you come along, Brown?"Harriwell ate on steadily, while Bertie discovered that his pulse had leapedup five beats. Nevertheless, he could not help jumping when the rifles beganto go off. Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard the pumping ofBrown's and McTavish's Winchesters--all against a background of demoniacalscreeching and yelling."They've got them on the run," Harriwell remarked, as voices and gunshotsfaded away in the distance.Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latterreconnoitered."They've got dynamite," he said."Then let's charge them with dynamite," Harriwell proposed.Thrusting half a dozen sticks each into their pockets and equipping themselveswith lighted cigars, they started for the door. And just then it happened.They blamed McTavish for it afterward, and he admitted that the charge hadbeen a trifle excessive. But at any rate it went off under the house, whichlifted up cornerwise and settled back on its foundations. Half the china onthe table was shattered, while the eight-day clock stopped. Yelling forvengeance, the three men rushed out into the night, and the bombardment began.When they returned, there was no Bertie. He had dragged himself away to theoffice, barricaded himself in, and sunk upon the floor in a gin-soakednightmare, wherein he died a thousand deaths while the valorous fight went onaround him. In the morning, sick and headachey from the gin, he crawled out tofind the sun still in the sky and God presumable in heaven, for his hosts werealive and uninjured.Harriwell pressed him to stay on longer, but Bertie insisted on sailingimmediately on the Arla for Tulagi, where, until the following steamer day, hestuck close by the Commissioner's house. There were lady tourists on theoutgoing steamer, and Bertie was again a hero, while Captain Malu, as usual,passed unnoticed. But Captain Malu sent back from Sydney two cases of the bestScotch whiskey on the market, for he was not able to make up his mind as towhether it was Captain Hansen or Mr Harriwell who had given Bertie Arkwrightthe more gorgeous insight into life in the Solomons.

Previous Authors：The Tears of Ah Kim Next Authors：The Town-Site of Tra-Lee