iew across
the channel. In passing, I caught sight of a graceful calico skirt
disappearing from the piazza through a doorway. The place was the
residence of the missionary.

A trim little sail-boat was dancing out at her moorings, a few yards
from the beach.

Straggling over the low lands in the vicinity were several native
huts--untidy enough--but much better every way than most of those in
Tahiti.

We attended service at the church, where we found but a small
congregation; and after what I had seen in Papeetee, nothing very
interesting took place. But the audience had a curious, fidgety look,
which I knew not how to account for until we ascertained that a
sermon with the eighth commandment for a text was being preached.

It seemed that there lived an Englishman in the district, who, like
our friends, the planters, was cultivating Tombez potatoes for the
Papeetee market.

In spite of all his precautions, the natives were in the habit of
making nocturnal forays into his inclosure, and carrying off the
potatoes. One night he fired a fowling-piece, charged with pepper and
salt, at several shadows which he discovered stealing across his
premises. They fled. But it was like seasoning anything else; the
knaves stole again with a greater relish than ever; and the very next
night, he caught a party in the act of roasting a basketful of
potatoes under his own cooking-shed. At last, he stated his
grievances to the missionary; who, for the benefit of his
congregation, preached the sermon we heard.

Now, there were no thieves in Martair; but then, the people of the
valley were bribed to be honest. It was a regular business
transaction between them and the planters. In consideration of so
many potatoes "to them in hand, duly paid," they were to abstain from
all depredations upon the plantation. Another security against roguery
was the permanent residence upon the premises of their chief, Tonoi.

On our return to Martair in the afternoon, we found the doctor and
Zeke making themselves comfortable. The latter was reclining on the
ground, pipe in mouth, watching the doctor, who, sitting like a Turk,
before a large iron kettle, was slicing potatoes and Indian turnip,
and now and then shattering splinters from a bone; all of which, by
turns, were thrown into the pot. He was making what he called
"Bullock broth."

In gastronomic affairs, my friend was something of an artist; and by
way of improving his knowledge, did nothing