"Wak-wak!" I barked, and all my past life began to unfold before me.

It was a horrid sight—the wak-wak, I mean. He was swimming on the surface, and at ten feet I saw his great jaws open, lined with row upon row of teeth that stretched back into his interior as far as the eye could reach and farther. Mixed up with this dreadful reality were visions of my past. I seemed to be peering into one of those vast, empty auditoriums that had greeted my opera, "Jumping Jean," when it was finally produced, privately.

"Help! Help!" I screamed, reverting to English.

Suddenly Kippy seized the taa-taa from my nerveless grasp. Half closing it, she swam directly toward the monster into whose widening throat she thrust the sharp-pointed instrument, in, in, until I thought she herself would follow it. And then, as she had intended, the point pierced the wak-wak's tonsil.

With a shriek of pain his jaws began to close and, on the instant, Kippy yanked the handle with all her might, opening the taa-taa to its full extent in the beast's very narrows.

Choked though he was, unable for the moment to bite or expel the outer air and submerge, the brute was still dangerous. Kippy was towing me shoreward at a speed which caused the sea to foam about my bladders but the wak-wak still pursued us. A second time my dauntless mate rose to the occasion.

With amazing buoyancy she lifted herself to a half-seated position on the surface of the water and poured forth the most astounding imitation of the motherhood cry of the fatu-liva.

"Biloo-ow-ow-ow-ow-zing-aaa!"

Again, and yet again, it rang across the waters, and in the distance, flying at incredible speed, I saw the rainbow host of fatu-livas coming towards us!

Gallant fowl! Shall I ever forget how they circled about us. One of their clan, as they supposed, was in dire danger and they functioned as only a fatu-liva can. Flying at an immense height, in battle formation, they began laying eggs with marvelous precision. The first two struck the wak-wak square on the nose and he screamed with pain. The third, landing corner-wise, put out his right eye and he began to thrash in helpless circles. The fourth was a direct hit on my left temple. "Face-of-the-Moon" passed over the horizon into oblivion whence he emerged to find himself in a tree, his brow eased with an alova-leaf poultice, his heart comforted by Daughter of Pearl and Coral.



CHAPTER VII

Excursions beyond the outer reef. Our aquatic wives. Premonitions. A picnic on the mountain. Hearts and flowers. Whinney delivers a geological dissertation. Babai finds a fatu-liva nest. The strange flower in my wife's hair.

As I look back on the months which followed I can truthfully say that they were the happiest of my existence. The semi-detachment of our island domesticity was a charm against tedium; our family reunions were joys.

Often we organized picnics to distant points. With hold-alls of panjandrus leaves packed with a supply of breadfruit sandwiches, sun-baked cuttywink eggs and a gallon or two of hoopa, we would go to one of the lovely retreats with which our wives were familiar.

Occasionally we sailed in the Kawa, at which times the intrepid Triplett accompanied us. Remembering those happy times I now realize that his presence cast the only shadow across the bright sunlight of our days. Why this was I could not have said,—indeed I should have probably denied that it was so, yet the fact remains that on some of our excursions to neighboring islands, when, having pulled back the terrestrial cork of the atoll, we had eased our tight little craft into the outer waters, I experienced a distinct dorsal chill.

Both Kippiputuonaa and Lupoba-Tilaana felt this to a marked degree, but most of all was it apparent in its affect on Mrs. Whinney whose maiden name, Babai-Alova-babai (Triple extract of Alova), only faintly describes the intoxicating fragrance of her beauty.

"Tiplette, naue aata b'nau boti!" she used to cry. "Do not let Triplett go in the boat."

The old man was insistent. He had worked William Henry Thomas to exhaustion rerigging the craft and then thrust him out, bag and baggage. But I must admit that between them they had done a good job. William Henry and his bride took up lodgings in a tall tree near the lagoon whence they used mournfully to regard the floating home in which they had spent their unhallowed honeymoon. When we actually began to sail her the William Henry Thomases disappeared from view as if the sight were too much for them, and we seldom saw them thereafter.

Triplett's ingenuity was responsible for the bamboo mast, woven paa-paa sail and the new yard-arm, which, in the absence of a universal joint was cleverly fashioned of braided eva-eva.

On our cruises our wives spent a large part of their time overboard, sporting about the ship like porpoises, ever and anon diving deep under our counter only to appear on the other side decked with polyp buds as if crowned by Neptune himself. At this game Babai-Alova-Babai excelled. Never shall I forget the day she suddenly popped up close alongside and playfully tossed a magnificent pearl into Triplett's lap.

But, as I say, I did not feel at ease. Perhaps it was my experience with the wak-waks,—perhaps,—however, I anticipate.

Our merriest jaunts were nearer home. Most memorable of all was our first trip to the mountain, that gorgeous pile on the center of the lagoon.

It was early morning when we set out, disdaining our trim "Tree-with-Wings" from the deck of which Triplett watched our short three-mile swim across the still water. At every stroke flocks of iridescent dew-fish rose about us uttering their brittle note, "Klicketty-inkle! Klicketty-inkle!" [Footnote: One of the pleasantest sights imaginable is that of the natives gathering these little creatures as they rise to the surface at dawn. The dew-fish or kali-loa are similar to our white-bait, but much whiter. W.E.T.]



[Illustration Note: GOLDEN HARMONIES

This was the sort of thing that greeted the intrepid explorers of the Kawa when they made their first tour of the island and were entertained by the entrancing inhabitants of the women's compound. The two performers are respectively Lupoba-Tilaana and Baibai-Alova-Baibai. It was only after much persuasion that they agreed to be photographed but, when finally posed to Mr. Whinney's satisfaction, they entered into the spirit of the occasion by bursting into the national anthem of Love, which is described in Chapter II. The instruments are the bombi, a hollow section of rapiti-wood covered with fish membrane, and the lonkila, a stringed instrument of most plaintive and persuasive tone. These two instruments, with the addition of the bazoota, a wood-wind affair made from papoo reeds, make up the simple orchestral equipment of the Filberts.]

We were all wearing the native costume and Swank, I remember, caught his rigolo on a coral branch and delayed us five minutes. But we were soon on the inner beach laughing over the incident while Babai made repairs.

The path up the mountain led through a paradise of tropical wonders. On this trip Whinney was easily the star, his scientific knowledge enabling him to point out countless marvels which we might not otherwise have seen. As he talked I made rapid notes.

"Look," he said, holding up an exquisite rose-colored reptile. "The tritulus annularis or pink garter snake! Almost unheard of in the tropics."

Kippy insisted on tying it around her shapely limb. Then, of course, Babai must have one, too, and great were our exertions before we bagged an additional pair for our loved ones.

Thus sporting on our way, crowned with alova and girdled with tontoni (a gorgeous type of flannel-mouthed snapdragon which kept all manner of insects at bay), we wound toward the summit, stopping ever and anon to admire the cliffs of mother-of-pearl, sheer pages of colorful history thrown up long ago by some primeval illness of mother earth.

Swank was so intoxicated by it all that I made almost the only break of our island experience.

"You've been drinking," I accused.

"You lie," he answered hotly, "it's these colors! Wow-wow! Osky-wow-wow! Skinny wow-wow Illinois!"

"Oh, shut up!" I remonstrated, when I saw Tilaana advancing toward me, fluttering her taa-taa in the same menacing way in which Kippy had attacked the wak-wak.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "I was wrong. I apologize."

We stood in a circle and chinned each other until peace was restored.

The view from the summit was, as authors say, indescribable. Nevertheless I shall describe it, or rather I shall quote Whinney who at this moment reached his highest point. We were then about three thousand feet above sea-level.

I wish I could give his address as it was delivered, in Filbertese, but I fear that my readers would skip, a form of literary exercise which I detest.

Try for a moment to hold the picture; our little group standing on the very crest of the mountain as if about to sing the final chorus of the Creation to an audience of islands. Far-flung they stretched, these jeweled confections, while below, almost at our very feet, we could see the Kawa and Triplett, a tiny speck, frantically waving his yard-arm! Even at three thousand feet he gave me a chill.... But let Whinney speak.

"It is plain," he said, "that the basalt monadnock on which we stand is a carboniferous upthrust of metamorphosed schists, shales and conglomerate, probably Mesozoic or at least early Silurian."

At this point our wives burst into laughter. In fact, their attitude throughout was trying but Whinney bravely proceeded.

"You doubtless noticed on the shore that the deep-lying metamorphic crystals have been exposed by erosion, leaving on the upper levels faulted strata of tilted lava-sheets interstratified with pudding-stone."

"We have!" shouted Swank.

"Evidently then," continued the professor, "the atoll is simply an annular terminal moraine of detritus shed alluvially into the sea, thus leaving a geosyncline of volcanic ash embedded with an occasional trilobite and the fragments of scoria, upon which we now stand."



[Illustration Note: WILLIAM HENRY THOMAS

Of all the members of the now famous cruise of the Kawa into hitherto uncharted waters it is doubtful if any one entered so fully into the spirit of adventure as the silent fore-mast hand whose portrait faces this text. It was he who first adopted native costume. The day after landing in the Filberts he was photographed as we see him wearing a native wreath of nabiscus blooms and having discarded shoes. Every day he discarded some article of raiment. It was he who first took unto himself an island mate. It was he who ultimately abandoned all hope of ever seeing his home and country again, electing rather to remain among his new-found people with his new-found love and his new-found name, Fatakahala (Flower of Darkness). Truly, strange flowers of fancy blossom in the depths of the New England character. It is reported that he has lately been elected King of the Filberts.]

We gave Whinney a long cheer with nine Yales at the close to cover the laughter of the women, for the discourse was really superb. In English its melodic charm is lost, but you must admit that for an indescribable thing it is a very fine description.

After several days of idyllic life in our mountain paradise we felt the returning urge of our various ambitions.

"Kippy, my dear," I said, "I think we ought to be going."

Sweet soul that she was! that they all were, these beautiful women of ours! Anything we proposed was agreeable to them. As we trooped down the mountain singing, our merry chorus shook the forest glades and literally brought down the cocoanuts.

Whinney was not alone in his scientific discoveries for on the return trip Babai suddenly gave a cry of delight and the next instant had climbed with amazing agility to the top of a towering palm whence she returned bearing a semi-spheric bowl of closely woven grass in which lay four snow-white, polka-dotted cubes, the marvelous square eggs of the fatu-liva!

"Kopaa kopitaa aue!" she cried. "Hide them. Quickly, away!"

I knew the danger, of which my temple still bore the scar. Concealing our find under our taa-taa we scraped and slid over the faulted and tilted strata to which Whinney had referred until we reached the beach. High above us I could hear the anguished cry of the mother fatu-liva vainly seeking her ravished home and potential family.

The marking of the eggs is most curious and Whinney took a photograph of them (see ) when we reached the yawl. It is an excellent picture though Whinney, with the raptiousness of the scientist, claims that one of the eggs moved.

Just before we left the mountain beach my own radiant Daughter of Pearl and Coral made a discovery which in the light of after events was destined to play an important part in our adventures. Kippiputuona, my own true mate, there is something ironically tragic in the thought that the simple blue flower which you plucked so carelessly from the cliff edge and thrust into your hair would some day—but again, I anticipate.

We had reached the yawl, which we made a sort of half-way house and were chatting with Captain Triplett. Whinney was repeating parts of his talk and I noticed that Triplett's attention was wandering. His eye was firmly fixed on the flower in Kippy's hair. That called my attention to it and I saw that whenever my wife turned her head the blossom of the flower slowly turned in the opposite direction.

Suddenly Triplett interrupted Whinney to say in a rather shaky voice, "Mrs. Traprock, if you please, would you mind facin' a-stern."

I motioned to Kippy to obey, which she would have done anyway.

"An' now," said the Captain, "kindly face forrard."

Same business.

The flower slowly turned on Kippy's head!

Stretching forth a trembling hand, Triplett plucked the blossom from Kippy's hair!

You can only imagine the commotion which ensued when I tell you that, in the Filberts, for a man to pluck a flower from a woman's hair means only one thing. Poor Kippy was torn between love of me and what she thought was duty to my chief. I had a most difficult time explaining to her that Triplett meant absolutely nothing by his action, a statement which he corroborated by all sorts of absurd "I don't care," gestures—but he clung to the flower.

An hour later when we had escorted the ladies safely to their compound, I paddled back to the yawl. Peering through the port-hole I could see Triplett by the light of a phosphorous dip working on a rude diagram; at his elbow was the blue flower in a puta-shell of water.

"Triplett," I asked sternly, as I stood beside him an instant later, "what is that flower?"

"That," said Triplett, "is a compass-plant."

"And what is a compass-plant?"

"A compass-plant," said Triplett, "is—-," but for the third and last time, I anticipate.

I must get over that habit.



CHAPTER VIII

Swank's popularity on the island. Whinney's jealousy. An artistic duel. Whinney's deplorable condition. An assembly of the Archipelago. Water-sports on the reef. The Judgment.

Whinney and I were surprised to find that the islanders took Swank more seriously than they did either of us. Of course, since the Kawa's forcible entry into the atoll premier honors were Triplett's, but Swank was easily second.

The curious reason was that his pictures appealed. I think I have indicated that Swank was ultramodern in his tendencies. "Artless art," was his formula, often expressed by his slogan—"A bas l'objectif! Vive le subjonctif." Whatever that means, he scored with the Filbertines who would gather in immense numbers wherever he set up his easel.

This was due in part to his habit of standing with his back to the scene which he proposed to paint and, bending over until his head almost touched the ground, peering at the landscape between his outspread legs.

"It intensifies the color," he explained. "Try it."

Baahaabaa bestowed a title on our artist—"Maimaue Ahiiahi"—"Tattooer of Rainbows"—by which he was loudly acclaimed. Whinney and I used to sing, "He's always tattooing rainbows!" but artistic vanity was proof against such bourgeoisie.

Baahaabaa was tireless in suggesting new subjects for him to paint. One day it would be a performance of the Ataboi, the languorously sensuous dance which we had first seen in the women's compound; again he would stage a scene of feasting, at which the men passed foaming shells of hoopa from hand to hand. A difficulty was that of preventing the artist from quitting work and joining his models which Swank always justified by saying that the greatest art resulted from submerging oneself with one's subject.

"Look at Gaugin!" he used to say.

"But I don't like to look at Gaugin," I remonstrated.

Whinney foolishly tried to compete with Swank by means of his camera—foolishly, I say, though the result was one of the finest spectacles I have ever witnessed.

For days Whinney had been stalking Swank, photographing everything he painted. In a darkroom of closely woven panjandrus leaves the films were developed and a proof rushed off to Baahaabaa long before the artist had finished his picture.

This naturally irritated Swank and he finally challenged the scientist to mortal combat, an artistic duel, camera against brush, lens against eye.

When the details were explained to Baahaabaa, he was in a frenzy of excitement. As judge, his decision was to be final, which should have warned Whinney, who, as the challenged party, had the right to select the subject. His choice was distinctly artful.

"I think I've got him!" he confided. "We're to do the 'lagoon at dawn.' You know what that means? Everything's gray and I can beat him a mile on gray; secondly, there won't be a gang of people around, and, thirdly, Swank simply loathes getting up early. They're all alike, these artists; any effort before noon is torture!"

"All right," said Swank, when I explained the conditions, "I won't go to bed at all."



[Illustration Note: THE LAGOON AT DAWN

(Whinney's Version)

What the camera can do in interpreting the subtle values of a delicate color scheme is here shown in the prize photograph submitted by Reginald Whinney in the great competition presided over by Chief Baahaabaa. It is rare indeed to find a beach in the Filbert Islands so deserted. An hour after this photograph was taken more than three thousand natives were assembled to witness the judging of the exhibits. In the small hours of night, the entire strand is covered with pita-oolas, or giant land-crabs, about the size of manhole covers, who crawl inland to cut down the palm trees with which they build their nests. An examination of the picture with a powerful microscope will reveal the presence on the surface of the water of millions of dew-fish enjoying their brief interval of day and dew.]

When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret to say that Swank was not himself. He had spent the night with Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced him precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep. In the meantime Whinney was dodging about with his camera, squinting in the finder, without finding anything—one never does—peering at the brightening sky, holding his thumb at arm's length, [Footnote: In Southern Peru the same gesture used to signify contempt and derision.] in a word going through all the artistic motions which should have been Swank's. The latter finally aroused himself and laboriously got onto all fours, looking like a dromedary about to lie down, from which position he contemplated the sunrise for several minutes and then began to fumble in his painting box.

"Ver' funny—ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."

"Let me get them for you," I suggested.

He waived me aside. "Gimme air."

Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to use an entire film, and submit the picture which came out best. Swank was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly from the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others—the "Tubistes" so called. Every few moments he would lurch forward and press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his masterpiece, most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.

Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa snored; Swank worked and I, from a near-by knoll, watched the miracle of a tropical dawn.

It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in composition, the curve of purple and lavender beach unbroken, the crest of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The waters of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of the sky from which the trailing garments of night were gradually withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.

Swank only allowed himself the use of the three primary colors—consequently his rendering of the opalescent beauty of this particular dawn was somewhat beyond me.

Where I saw the glowing promise of color rather than color itself, Swank saw red. Where I felt the hushed presence of dawn "like a pilgrim clad," Swank vibrated to the harmonies of pure pigment, the full brass of a tonal orchestra.

Of a sudden his color hypnotism transported him.

"Eee—yow!" he howled, brandishing a handful of Naples yellow mixed with coral which he hurled at the canvas. "Zow! Bam! Ooh, la la!" His shrieks roused his escorts and brought a rapidly swelling crowd to the dune, where, to the sound of his own ravings and the plaudits of the spectators, he finished his masterpiece.

Late afternoon of the same day was the hour agreed upon for the Judgment. Baahaabaa had sent invitations by express swimmers to all the near-by islands. He invited the entire archipelago.

The picture of their approach was interesting. Kippy haled me to the top of a tall tree whence we watched the convergent argosies, hundreds of tiny specks each bearing an outspread taa-taa of gleaming leaves. It was as if Birnam Wood had gone yachting.

"Tapa nui ekilana lohoo-a" chanted my mate.

Following her outstretched hand I discerned a group of taa-taas, arranged in wedge formation, the enclosing sides being formed by swimmers carrying a web of woven haro, in the center of which reposed a visiting chief with three or four of his wives.



[Illustration Note: THE LAGOON AT DAWN

(Swank's Version)

An interesting example of the way in which the mind of a painter works will be found in this reproduction of the masterpiece created by Herman Swank in competition with the photograph of the same title. Both camera and painter were to reproduce the same subject, yet how differently they reacted to it. In the beauty of nature about him it is evident that the great artist felt only the dominant feature of island life, the glorious, untrammeled womanhood of the South Seas. The wild abandon, the primitive gesture of modesty, the eyes of adoration—symbolically expressed as detached entities floating about the loved one—all are present in this remarkable picture. Thus expressed, too, we may find the ever-present ocean, the waving palms and, if we seek carefully, the Kawa herself, scudding before the trade wind. Truly may this be called, as the artist prefers, the Venus of Polynesia.]

By four o'clock the beach was thronged with thousands of gleaming bodies. Festivity and rejoicing were in every eye. Shouts of welcome, bursts of laughter, and the resounding slap of friendly hand on visiting hip or shoulder, the dignified welcome of the chiefs, cries of children, dances and games, myriad details of social amity—all presented a picture of unspoiled Polynesia such as is found in the Filberts alone. When I forget it, may I be forgot.

Of course Swank, Whinney and I were objects of much curiosity—and admiration. Hundreds of times my radiant Daughter of Pearl and Coral repeated:

"Ahoa tarumea—Kapatooi Naani-Tui"—"I should like to make you acquainted with my husband, Face-of-the-Moon."

Hundreds of times did I press my chin against soft ears and submit to the same gentle greeting. Hundreds of times did I raise the welcoming hoopa-shell with the usual salutation—"Lomi-lomi,"—"May you live for a thousand years and grow to enormous size."

In a rest period Kippy and I swam to the reef where the younger set were sporting among the coral, diving for pearls which rolled on the purple floor. As I think now of the value of those milky globes, the size of gooseberries, I marvel that not a thought of covetousness crossed my mind. What were pearls to us?

"Catch!" cried Kippy, and threw a fish-skin beauty in my direction. I admired its lustre for an instant and its perfect roundness acquiredfrom the incessant rolling of the tides—then carelessly tossed it back. It slipped between Kippy's fingers.

"I'll get it," I cried, making ready to dive, but she shouted a warning.

"Arani electi. Oki Kutiaa!"-"Look out! The snapping oysters!"

Gazing down through the crystal depths into which our bauble had fallen I saw a great gaping kutiaa, the fiercest of crustacea, its shelly mouth slightly ajar, waiting for the careless hand or foot that might come within its grasp. We let the pearl go and amused ourselves by sucking the eggs of the liho, a bland-faced bird which makes its nest in the surface coral branches. [Footnote: The liho is in many respects the most remarkable fowl in existence. It is of the gallinaris or hen- family crossed with the male shad which causes the bird to produce eggs in unheard of quantity.] Here, too, we laughed over the ridiculous ratatia, that grotesque amphibian who is built like a ferry-boat, with a head at either end and swivel fins so that however he may move he is always going forward.

From these diversions the sound of singing summoned us. The Judgment was about to take place. At top speed we swam ashore and joined the crowd. For once I was glad that literature had no place in the competition, so that Kippy and I were free to watch the proceedings.

Years ago I saw the ceremonial by which the British Government conferred on the Bahia of Persia the title of "The Bab of Babs," but it was nothing compared to what I now gazed upon.

As far as the eye could reach stretched the crowd. Under a gorgeous dais of panjandrus leaves respondent with alova blossoms sat Baahaabaa, on his right Captain Triplett, on his left Hanuhonu, the ranking visitor, and all about retinues of nobles, with their superb families, groups of dancers, slim and straight as golden birches, singers, orators and athletes. It was grand opera on a titanic scale, with the added distinction of really meaning something.

Baahaabaa spoke first—in fact I think I may say that he spoke first, last and all the time. I can conscientiously claim that he is the champion long-distance orator of the world. Ever and anon he gave way to a guest but only for a moment.

"We are met," he said—I translate freely—"we are met to witness the emulation of friends." Could anything be more delicate?

"We have with us tonight, in this corner, Wanooa-Potonopoa (Whinney), the Man with his Eye in a Box" (this was plainly a reference to Whinney's camera)—"while in this corner, we have Mainaue Ahiiahi, Tattooer-of-Rainbows. Both boys are members of this island."

The applause was enormous but Swank had the grace to rise and kiss his finger-tips toward the audience which immediately put him on a friendly footing.

After a few more speeches by Baahaabaa the exhibits were unveiled. Of course, the result was foregone. I must admit that Whinney's was not hung to advantage. The two pictures were placed against tufts of haro at forty yards distance where, naturally, the detail of the photograph lost something of its effectiveness. Swank's picture on the contrary blazed like a pin-wheel. The further you got from it the better it looked.

A characteristic point in the competition was that Swank had introduced figures into his composition where no figures had existed. "What do I care?" he said to my objection. "I was there, wasn't I? And you were there? There may have been others."

A mighty roar followed the unveiling, a shout of such force that tons of breadfruit and thousands of cocoanuts fell from the adjacent trees. But it was plain to see whom the shouting was for. Then Baahaabaa made the awards and—the prizes were identical—two royal rigolos of mother-of-pearl, elaborately trimmed with corals and pendants of limpid aquamarine. What tact, what grace and charm in these identical rewards!

I am fortunate in being able to reproduce both masterpieces, so that my readers may form their own decision. Personally, Whinney's photograph seems to me to reproduce more completely my memories of "The Lagoon at Dawn." But I may be wrong. Modern artists will probably back up the popular judgment and on that memorable day in the Filberts I would certainly have been in the minority.



CHAPTER IX

More premonitions. Triplett's curious behavior. A call from Baahaabaa. We visit William Henry Thomas. His bride. The christening. A hideous discovery. Pros and cons. Our heart-breaking decision. A stirrup-cup of lava-lava.

It was two weeks after the great Competition before the celebrations which followed it terminated, the tumult and the shouting died, and the last of our amiable visitors paddled homeward, some being towed by new-found wives, while not a few remained in our own community, infusing our society with the novelty and fresh gossip of their islands. Little by little we settled back into domestic quiet.

A blithe incident enlivened that peaceful period, preceding tragic events which must be told in their proper place.

On the fairest of tropical mornings Kippy and I heard a gentle tapping at the trunk of our tree and, peering over the floor, saw below Baahaabaa, his face shining with happiness.

"Katia?" we questioned, but he was mysterious and led us quietly to the trees occupied by the Swanks, the Whinneys and finally Triplett, all of whom he roused as he had us.

"Katia?" we repeated.

"Hoko," he answered, and to our surprise, again motioned us forward. For twenty minutes we threaded a forest trail in which still lurked the shadows of night. At a giant palm tree our leader again tapped gently.

Who should look over the edge of the densely screened dwelling but William Henry Thomas!

At first glimpse of us he hastily drew back and I heard the muttered sound of old-fashioned, New England cursing. Reassured by Baahaabaa, however, he slid down to join us, followed by his wife.

It was the first time I had ever really seen her and I must say that I was completely bowled over by the sight. Plainly not of the same social class as the beautiful women whom Baahaabaa had selected for us, she yet possessed an eerie charm of her own which instantly stirred strange emotions in my breast. I heard Swank gasp and Whinney's face was white and drawn, his favorite expression when deeply moved. She stood close to her husband, half-twined about him with the grace and strength of an eva-eva vine while her kindling eyes burned questioningly, her lithe body tense and protective. "He is to be christened," said Baahaabaa, with a magnificent gesture toward William Henry Thomas.

We could only look our astonishment.

"Yes," continued the chief, smiling benignly, "first among you all is he to have his name recorded in our ancient fashion."

As he pronounced these words Baahaabaa lifted his left foot solemnly and pointed to his own royal appellation tattooed on the sole. Our wives did likewise.

"What is his name?" Whinney asked.

William Henry Thomas's head rose proudly as his wife replied in thrilling, woodland tones, "Fatakahala."

"Fatakahala!" repeated Baahaabaa, "Flower of Darkness," and William Henry Thomas raised his head as high as it would go.

"When does the ceremony take place?" asked Whinney. Baahaabaa pointed to the distant peak of the mountain.

"Tonight. Maka, the Tattooer, is ready; the fishbones are sharpened; the juice of the tupa-berries fills the holy shell. We go."

All that day we strung ceremonial garlands about the base of the mountain, which, with its circumference of a mile and three-quarters, was no small task. But sunset found it completed. We supped on the beach and at nine, under a rising moon, climbed toward the summit. The peak was reserved for William Henry Thomas, Maka and her four attendants who bore the utensils and long ropes of eva-eva—"to tie him with," whispered Baahaabaa.



[Illustration Note: THE NEST OF A FATU-LIVA

This is without question the most extraordinary picture which has ever been taken of any natural history subject. It corroborates in most convincing manner the author's claim to the discovery of the wonderful fatu-liva bird with its unique gift of laying square eggs. Here we see the eggs themselves in all the beauty of their cubical form and quaint marking; here we see the nest itself, made of delicately woven haro and brought carefully from the tree's summit by its discoverer, Babai-Alova-Babai. An extremely interesting feature of the picture is the presence in the nest of lapa or signal-feather. By close observation, Mr. Whinney, the scientist of the expedition, discovered that whenever the mother-bird left the nest in search of food she always decorated her home with one of her wing feathers which served as a signal to her mate that she would return shortly, which she invariably did. Skeptics have said that it would be impossible to lay a square egg. To which the author is justly entitled to say: "The camera never lies."]

At exactly ten, by the shadow of the mountain on the atoll, William Henry Thomas stepped forth into the moonlight to face his ordeal—alone.

In the darkness we waited, Kippy clinging close to me. Then came a sound at which I could but shudder. It was a giggle, the voice plainly that of William Henry Thomas. This was followed by a hysterical sob of laughter.

"The christening has begun," murmured Kippy.

You can not imagine anything more horrible. Never before to my knowledge had William Henry Thomas laughed. Now, wilder and yet more wild rang his uncontrollable mirth, rising at times to demoniac screams, anon sinking to convulsive chuckles. The worst of it was that it was infectious.

Conscious though we were of the poor wretch's suffering, we could not help joining his vocal expression of it, and thus we sat, in the darkness, our peals of laughter bursting forth at every fresh paroxysm. Tears of distress rolled down Swank's cheeks.

An hour later the vines parted and a recumbent form was borne gently down the mountain; William Henry Thomas, that was, his new name wrapped in soft leaves over which his wife sobbed in tender ecstasy.

On the day following a bolt fell from the blue.

Swank and I were spending the afternoon with Triplett on board the Kawa where the captain was explaining the workings of various home-made navigating instruments which he had manufactured.

"This here is a astrolabe," he said, "jackass quadrant, I call it." He displayed a sort of rudimentary crossbow. "An' this here is a perspective-glass, kind of a telescope, see? Made'er bamboo. The lenses ain't very good; had to use fish-skin. Got my compass-plant nicely rooted in sand, see—she's doin' fine."

"What's this all for?" asked Swank.

Triplett smiled malevolently.

"Don't you want to know where you be? I've got it all figgered out. Got a chart, too."

He unrolled a broad leaf on which he had drawn a rough sketch of the island, probable north and possible latitude and longitude.

Again the chill of dismay and apprehension which I had felt before in Triplett's presence ran up and down my spine. It was beginning to dawn upon me that Triplett was planning a get-away. "My God!" I cried, "take that thing away! What you trying to do, Triplett? Hook us up to civilization with all its deviltry and disease and damned conventions? Don't you appreciate the beauty of getting outside of the covers of a geography?"

The old devil only grinned, his very leer seeming to say, "I've got a trump card up my sleeve, young man."

What might have been a bitter scene was interrupted by something much more serious.

We saw Whinney running along the edge of the lagoon into which he presently plunged and began swimming madly in our direction. As he drew near I saw that he was deathly white. When we dragged him over the rail he collapsed in the scuppers and burst into tears.

"What is it?" we questioned.

He jerked out his answer in hoarse, broken fragments, while our blood froze.

"It's come.... I was afraid of it.... from the first... it's here... we've done it... we've got to get out... it is not fair..."

"For heaven's sake," I shouted. "What's here? What have we done?"

"Disease!" he panted. "Disease! You know ... how the other islands... Marquesas... Solomons... Tongas... dying, all dying."

His voice sank and he covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking.

"What... what is it? Who has it?"

It was then that Whinney made the supreme call on his nerve, stiffened visibly and answered in a dead voice, "My wife, Babai-Alova-Babai, has prickly-heat!"

It seemed to me in that moment that the entire atoll revolved rapidly in one direction while the mountain twirled in the other. Through my brain crashed a sequence of sickening pictures, the lepers of Molokai with their hideous affliction imported from China, the gaunt, coughing wrecks of Papeete, the scarecrows of Samoa—and now this!

And Whinney was right. We had done it; who individually, I know not, nor cared, but collectively we were guilty. Into this Eden, this Paradise in which I had never seen or heard of the slightest ailment, we, the prideful whites, had brought this deadly thing!

Should we remain, I dared not face the consequences.

"Is it... bad?" I managed to ask.

"Pretty," moaned poor Whinney. "Left knee, small of back... spreading."

"I'm going home," I said. "We'll meet here tomorrow afternoon at the same tune. If this thing develops" ...

I finished my sentence by diving overboard.

Early next morning I knew the worst. Daughter of Pearl and Coral was restless during the night. When the sun rose a single glance at her polished shoulders and my heart broke, never to be repaired. Folding her gently in my arms, I trembled in a paroxysm of grief.

We spent the entire day together, I in an agony of soul which I could not quite conceal and which my beloved tried to dispel by the tenderest tributes of her consuming love. I cannot speak more of what lies too deeply in my heart.



[Illustration Note: A FLEDGLING FATU-LIVA

It was by the rarest good fortune that Dr. Traprock was able to secure what is probably the only living specimen now in captivity of the hitherto unknown fatu-liva bird. Immediately upon his arrival at Papeete efforts were made to secure a mother bird of any kind which would hatch out the four fatu-liva eggs then in the explorer's possession. Owing to their angular and uncomfortable shape it was found impossible to keep a bird brooding for more than three minutes at a time. After much effort one egg was finally hatched from which was derived the handsome specimen shown in the illustration. The youngster is now doing finely in the Bronx aviary. Unfortunately he is a male, so that his hope of posterity rests entirely upon the success of another expedition to the Filbert Islands.]

It was a tragic trio which reassembled on the Kawa's deck as the late afternoon sun spread its golden hand across the lagoon. The purple shadow of the Mountain rested on our tiny craft but a shadow yet deeper shrouded our hearts. Each of us carried the consciousness of a terrible duty. We ought to leave the Filberts.

Broken-heartedly we talked over the situation.

"Getting worse," was Whinney's report. "Saw Baahaabaa scratching his leg this morning—probably got it."

Poor Baahaabaa, how my heart ached for him.

"We ought to leave," I said.

It was the first time any of us had dared state the hideous truth in plain words. They fell like lead on our spirits. Swank's sensitive soul was perhaps the most harrowed of all.

He sat moaning on the taffrail taking little or no part in the discussion. All at once he sprang up with blazing eyes.

"I can't do it!" he shouted. "I can't—and I won't. Blessed little Lupoba,—my Mist-on-the-Mountain. How can I desert you? How can we any of us desert our wives—let us stay, let us live, and, if we must, let us die. Love is more than life."

It was a powerful appeal. Overwrought as I was, I nearly succumbed to the false reasoning which was but the expression of my desire. And then once more the vision of those deadly inroads of disease rose before me.

"Whinney," I asked, "is there no cure for this awful thing? No antitoxin?"

He shook his head sadly.

"We have been studying it for years. The only hope is in their complete isolation. If we stay here ... and a second epidemic breaks out.... "; he shrugged hopelessly and Swank buried his face in the bilge-sponge.

"Enough!" I said sternly. "Triplett, when can we leave?"

"Tonight, sir," he answered with his old subservience. "I've got her completely stored, watered and ready."

"Come on," I said shortly. "We must get William Henry Thomas."

We swam ashore dejectedly, each, I know, contemplating suicide. For an hour we visited our friends. For them it was but a friendly call, for us the agony of parting.

Gentle, dignified Baahaabaa, shall I ever forget you as you stood with your hands resting on my shoulder, confidently expecting to see me on the morrow!—Merry Hitoia-Upa, kindly Ablutiluti, and Moolitonu, oh! that I might send some message across the waste of waters to tell your loving hearts of the love which still kindles in mine.

We did not dare visit our wives.

At dusk, that our conference might be unnoticed, we found our way to the William Henry Thomas family tree.

He came down instantly. All his old deference was gone. Something in the straight look of his eye told me that his christening had worked a tremendous moral change in the man, but I was not prepared for its extent.

"Not me," he said briefly, when we explained the necessity of our departure. "Not by a damn sight."

In vain we reasoned, urged and argued.

"Don't you want to go back to your own people?" asked Swank weakly.

A mocking laugh was the reply.

"My own people! Who was I among my own people? Just a bunch of first names—no last name at all. William Henry Thomas! That's a hell of a bunch of names. Who am I here? Fatakahala—Flower of Darkness—I guess that'll be about all. Good night, gentlemen."

With the agility of a monkey he bounded up his tree and disappeared. I stood at the foot of the tree and tried to argue further with him. "Remember Henry James," I shouted. "Think of Charles Henry George." It was in vain.

Swank started after him, but as he reached the floor-level a large hola-nut struck him squarely on the top of the head and he fell back, stunned.

Still further depressed we made our way back to the Kawa, our hearts aching as with the hurt of burns, a dull, throbbing torture.

"Drink?" said Captain Triplett in his most treacly manner. He held out a cup of lava-lava, the most deadly beverage of the islands. It is mixed with phosphorus and glows and tastes like hell-fire. I saw his plan and for once was grateful. We took the bowl from his hands and filed into the tiny cabin—each picking out a corner to fall in.

In silence we filled our shells and raised them to our lips, the last thought of each of us for our lost loved ones!

Hours—perhaps days—later I was dimly aware of a soft sobbing sound near my ear. Was it Swank crying? And then I realized that it was the chuckling of water under the Kawa's counter as manned by the intrepid Triplett she merrily footed it over the wrinkled sea.



CHAPTEK X

Once more the "Kawa" foots the sea. Triplett's observations and our assistance. The death of the compass-plant. Lost! An orgy of desperation. Oblivion and excess. The "Kawa" brings us home. Our reception in Papeete. A celebration at the Tiare.

That Triplett's refitting of the Kawa had been thorough and seamanlike was amply proven by the speed with which she traveled under the favoring trades. When our saddened but still intrepid ship's company reassembled on our limited quarterdeck there was no sign of land visible in any direction. The horizon stretched about our collective heads like an enormous wire halo. It was as if the Filberts had never existed.

The captain alone was cheerful. Joy bubbled from that calloused heart of his in striking contrast to the gloom of his companions. Most of the time he was our helmsman, his eye cocked aloft at the taut halyards of eva-eva, occasionally glancing from the sun to the compass-plant which bloomed in a shell of fresh water lashed to an improvised binnacle.

At regular intervals he took observations, figured the results, and jotted down our probable course on his chart. This document we could scarcely bear to look at for upon it our beloved island figured prominently. But the course of the Kawa interested us. It was a contradictory course and even Triplett seemed puzzled by the results of his calculations.

"Can't quite figger it out," he would mutter, lowering the astrolabe from its aim at the sun—"accordin' to this here jackass-quadrant we orter be dee-creesing our latitude—but the answer comes out different."

"Too much jackass and too little quadrant," snapped Swank, whose nerves were still like E strings.

Little by little, however, the calm of the great ocean invaded our souls and that well-known influence (mentioned in so many letters of consolation), "the hand of time," soothed the pain in our hearts. I think it was the quiet, self-contained Whinney who brought the most reasoned philosophy to bear on the situation.

"They will forget," he said one evening, as we sat watching the Double Cross slowly revolve about its axis. "We must remember that they are a race of children. They have no written records of the past, no anticipations of the future. They live for the present. Childlike, they will grieve deeply, for a day maybe; then another sun will rise, Baahaabaa will give another picnic—" he sighed deeply.

"The tragedy of it is that their memories should be so short and ours so long," I commented.

"Yes," agreed Swank, "but I suppose we ought to be thankful. They were a wonderful people, it was a wonderful experience. And no matter what art-juries of the future may do to me, my pictures were a success in the Filberts."

Blessed old Swank, he always looked on the bright side of things!

Day by day matters mended—and our spirits rose. We began to think more and more of getting in touch with civilization. What a tale we should have to tell. How we should put it over the other explorers with their trite Solomons and threadbare Marquesas!

"Where do you think we'll land, Captain?" I asked Triplett.

"Hard to say," he answered, "accordin' to compass-plant I'm steerin' a straight course for anywhere, but accordin' to the jackass (he had dropped the word "quadrant" since Swank's thrust) we're spinnin' a web round these seas from where we started to nowhere via where we be."



[Illustration Note: BAAHAABAA MOURNING THE DEPARTURE OF HIS FRIENDS

In all the history of great friendships there is nothing more touching and more noble than the beautiful bond which existed between Baahaabaa, the simple, primitive chief of the Filbertines and the white men who spent the happiest months of their lives on his island and then so strangely vanished. For several days after their departure he spoke no word. But every evening at sunset he took his place opposite an opening in the reef where the Kawa had first made her appearance and there he sat until darkness covered him. "Whom are you awaiting?" his chieftains asked him. He shook his head mournfully; memories in the Filberts are mercifully short. Then placing his hand over his heart he said, "I know not who it is, but something is gone—from here."

Three weeks later when this photograph was taken he was still keeping up his lonely vigil.]

We tried to help him. While the Captain pointed his astrolabe sunward and announced the figures Whinney and I, like tailors' assistants, took them down, Whinney doing the adding, I the subtracting and Swank the charting. The results were confusion worse confounded.

And then a dreadful thing happened.

The compass-plant sickened and died.

Whether some sea-water splashed into the shell or whether it was just change of environment, I do not know. But day by day it drooped and faded.

I shall never forget the night she breathed her last. With white faces we sat about the tiny brown bowl in which lay our hope of orientation. In Triplett's great rough paw was a fountain-pen filler of fresh water which he gently dropped on the flowerlet's unturned face. At exactly one-thirty, solar time, the tiny petals fluttered faintly and closed.

"She's gone," groaned Triplett, and dashed a tear, the size of a robin's egg, from his furrowed cheek. In that ghastly light we stared at each other.

We were lost!

From then on we gave up all attempts at navigation and went in for plain sailing. Taking an approximate north from sun and stars we simply headed our tight little craft on her way and let her pound.

A sort of desperate feeling, the panic which always comes to those who are lost, led us to wild outbursts of gaiety and certain excesses in the matter of use of our supplies. Every evening we opened fresh gourds of hoopa and made large inroads into our stores of pai, pickled gobangs and raw crawfish.

How long this kept up I cannot say, for we had given up time reckoning along with other forms of arithmetic. But I well remember that it was the Captain who had to intervene at last.

"Look here, boys," he said. "Do you realize that you're eatin' an' drinkin' yourselves outer house an' home? We got jest a week's grub in our lockers, if we go on short rations. Beyond that,"—he waved his arm toward the ocean, as if to say "overboard for ours."

"Look here!" cried Swank excitedly, "do you suppose I want to go in for one of these slow starvation stunts, perishing miserably on half a biscuit a day! O man! that's old stuff. Every explorer that ever wrote has done that, you know—falling insensible in the boat, drifting around for weeks, being towed into port, sunbaked, like mummies. Not on your life! What I propose is one final party—let's eat the whole outfit tonight, hook, line and sinker."

We carried the proposition by acclamation, except Triplett who spat sourly to windward, a thing few men can do. And we were as good as our word.

Late into the night we roared our sea-songs over the indifferent ocean, pledging our lost ones, singing, laughing and weeping with the abandon of lost sheep. With Triplett it was a case of forcible feeding for he kept trying to secrete his share of the menu in various parts of his person, slipping fistsful of crawfish in his shirt-bosom and pouring his cup of hoopa into an old fire-extinguisher which rolled in the ship's waist. Pinioning his arms we squirted the fiery liquid between his set jaws, after which he too gave himself up to unrestrained celebration.

Our supplies lasted for two days, and for two days our wild orgy continued.

We have all read of the hunter lost in trackless forest wilds who finally falls exhausted on his pommel and is brought safely home by his loose-reined mustang.

That is exactly what happened to us. I know I am departing from literary custom when I abandon the picture of slow starvation, with its attractive episodes of shoe-eating, sea-drinking, madness, cannibalism and suicide which make up the final scene of most tales of adventure. But I must tell the truth.

While we caroused, our helm was free, the tiller banging, sail flapping, boom gibing, blocks rattling. It was as if we had thrown the reins of guidance on the neck of our staunch little seahorse and she, superbly sturdy creature, proceeded to bring us home. On we went across the waters, steered only by fate.

In the midst of a rousing rendering of "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," we were startled by a grinding crash that threw us in a heap on the floor. Down the companion way burst a flood of green water through which we struggled to the steeply slanting deck, where on ourport bow I glimpsed the picture of a pleasant sandy beach, trees, ships, docks, a large white hotel and hundreds of people—white and brown, in bathing! In one thundering burst of amazement the truth swept over me; we were in the harbor of Papeete! In the next instant strong arms seized me and I was borne through the breakers and up the beach.

Well, they were all there! O'Brien—dear old Fred, and Martin Johnson, just in from the Solomons with miles of fresh film; McFee, stopping over night on his way to the West Indies; Bill Beebe, with his pocket full of ants; Safroni, "Mac" MacQuarrie, Freeman, "Cap" Bligh—thinner than when I last saw him in Penang—and, greatest surprise of all, a bluff, harris-tweeded person who peered over the footboard of my bed and roared in rough sea-tones:

"Well, as I live and breathe, Walter Traprock!"

It was Joe Conrad.

I told my story that night in the dining-room of the Tiare, or, at least, I told just enough of it to completely knock my audience off their seats. For many good reasons I avoided exact details of latitude, longitude, and the like.

No island is sacred among explorers.

"Gentlemen," I said, rather neatly, "I cannot give you the Filberts' latitude or longitude. But I will say that their pulchritude is 100!"

The place was in an uproar. They plied me with questions, and Dr. Funk's! It was a night of rejoicing and triumph which I shall never forget, and which only Fred O'Brien can describe.

The later results are too well known to need recital, Swank's success, Whinney's position in the Academy of Sciences, my own recognition by the Royal Geographic Society.

The tight little Kawa still rides the seas, Triplett in command. She is kept fully stocked, ready to sail at a moment's notice. Soon, perhaps, the wanderlust will seize us again and, throwing down our lightly won honors, we will once more head for the trackless trail.

But we will not make for the Filberts. Too tender are the memories which wreathe those opal isles, too irrevocable the changes which must have taken place. Rather let us preserve their undimmed beauty in our hearts.

On our next trip we have agreed, all of us, that by far the best plan will be to leave the choice of our route, destination and return (if any) to the Kawa herself.



OTHER BOOKS BY WALTER E. TRAPROCK

Who's Hula in Hawaii 1899 Dances, Near-dances and No-dances of the Far East 1902 Through Borneo on a Bicycle 1904 Curry-Dishes for Moderate Incomes 1907 Sobs from the South Seas-Poems 1912 Around Russia on Roller Skates 1917 Crazy With Tahiti-Translations from Native Folklore 1918 How to Explore, and What 1919

NOTE:—Most of the above are out of print. The author still has a few copies of "Curry-Dishes for Moderate Incomes" which may be had at the publication price, $200.



SEE THE SOUTH SEAS

S. S. Love-Nest, sailing from San Francisco, June 1st, Sept. 3rd, Dec 2nd and March 7th. Three months' cruise.

See the cute cannibals. Excursion rates for round trip with stops at all important islands. Everybody's doing it. Don't be a back number.

THE END