ound each of their necks he removed a necklace of
porpoise teeth that was worth a gold sovereign in mere exchange value.
From the kinky locks of one of the naked young men he drew a hand-carved,
fine-toothed comb, the lofty back of which was inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, which he later sold in Sydney to a curio shop for eight
shillings. Nose and ear ornaments of bone and turtle-shell he also
rifled, as well as a chest-crescent of pearl shell, fourteen inches
across, worth fifteen shillings anywhere. The two spears ultimately
fetched him five shillings each from the tourists at Port Moresby. Not
lightly may a ship steward undertake to maintain a six-quart reputation.

When he turned to depart from the active young men, who, back to
consciousness, were observing him with bright, quick, wild-animal eyes,
Kwaque followed so close at his heels as to step upon them and make him
stumble. Whereupon he loaded Kwaque with his trove and put him in front
to lead along the runway to the beach. And for the rest of the way to
the steamer, Dag Daughtry grinned and chuckled at sight of his plunder
and at sight of Kwaque, who fantastically titubated and ambled along,
barrel-like, on his pipe-stems.

On board the steamer, which happened to be the _Cockspur_, Daughtry
persuaded the captain to enter Kwaque on the ship's articles as steward's
helper with a rating of ten shillings a month. Also, he learned Kwaque's
story.

It was all an account of a pig. The two active young men were brothers
who lived in the next village to his, and the pig had been theirs--so
Kwaque narrated in atrocious beche-de-mer English. He, Kwaque, had never
seen the pig. He had never known of its existence until after it was
dead. The two young men had loved the pig. But what of that? It did
not concern Kwaque, who was as unaware of their love for the pig as he
was unaware of the pig itself.

The first he knew, he averred, was the gossip of the village that the pig
was dead, and that somebody would have to die for it. It was all right,
he said, in reply to a query from the steward. It was the custom.
Whenever a loved pig died its owners were in custom bound to go out and
kill somebody, anybody. Of course, it was better if they killed the one
whose magic had made the pig sick. But, failing that one, any one would
do. Hence Kwaque was selected for the blood-atonement.

Dag Daughtry drank a seventh quart as he listened, so carried away was he
by the