ef warned. "Better not let him spot that shirt, or it's all day with
it."

"That's right," Captain Boig agreed, turning his head from watching the
house lights on the shore. "Last voyage he fined one of my Kanakas out
of a fancy belt and sheath-knife." He turned to the mate. "You can let
go any time, Mr. Marsh. Don't give too much slack. There's no sign of
wind, and in the morning we may shift opposite the copra-sheds."

A minute later the anchor rumbled down. The whaleboat, already hoisted
out, lay alongside, and the shore-going party dropped into it. Save for
the Kanakas, who were all bent for shore, only Grief and the supercargo
were in the boat. At the head of the little coral-stone pier Willie
Smee, with an apologetic gurgle, separated from his employer and
disappeared down an avenue of palms. Grief turned in the opposite
direction past the front of the old mission church. Here, among
the graves on the beach, lightly clad in _ahu's_ and _lava-lavas_,
flower-crowned and garlanded, with great phosphorescent hibiscus
blossoms in their hair, youths and maidens were dancing. Farther on,
Grief passed the long, grass-built _himine_ house, where a few score
of the elders sat in long rows chanting the old hymns taught them by
forgotten missionaries. He passed also the palace of Tui Tulifau, where,
by the lights and sounds, he knew the customary revelry was going
on. For of the happy South Sea isles, Fitu-Iva was the happiest. They
feasted and frolicked at births and deaths, and the dead and the unborn
were likewise feasted.

Grief held steadily along the Broom Road, which curved and twisted
through a lush growth of flowers and fern-like algarobas. The warm air
was rich with perfume, and overhead, outlined against the stars, were
fruit-burdened mangoes, stately avocado trees, and slender-tufted palms.
Every here and there were grass houses. Voices and laughter rippled
through the darkness. Out on the water flickering lights and soft-voiced
choruses marked the fishers returning from the reef.

At last Grief stepped aside from the road, stumbling over a pig that
grunted indignantly. Looking through an open door, he saw a stout and
elderly native sitting on a heap of mats a dozen deep. From time to
time, automatically, he brushed his naked legs with a cocoa-nut-fibre
fly-flicker. He wore glasses, and was reading methodically in what Grief
knew to be an English Bible. For this was Ieremia, his trader, so named
from the proph