all well-behaved,
though full of childish wiles. One old gentleman, a high chief, was
seized with alarming symptoms of belly-ache whenever Mrs. de Coetlogon
went her rounds at night: he was after brandy. Others were insatiable
for morphine or opium. A chief woman had her foot amputated under
chloroform. "Let me see my foot! Why does it not hurt?" she cried. "It
hurt so badly before I went to sleep." Siteoni, whose name has been
already mentioned, had his shoulder-blade excised, lay the longest of
any, perhaps behaved the worst, and was on all these grounds the
favourite. At times he was furiously irritable, and would rail upon his
family and rise in bed until he swooned with pain. Once on the balcony
he was thought to be dying, his family keeping round his mat, his father
exhorting him to be prepared, when Mrs. de Coetlogon brought him round
again with brandy and smelling-salts. After discharge, he returned upon
a visit of gratitude; and it was observed, that instead of coming
straight to the door, he went and stood long under his umbrella on that
spot of ground where his mat had been stretched and he had endured pain
so many months. Similar visits were the rule, I believe without
exception; and the grateful patients loaded Mrs. de Coetlogon with gifts
which (had that been possible in Polynesia) she would willingly have
declined, for they were often of value to the givers.

The tissue of my story is one of rapacity, intrigue, and the triumphs of
temper; the hospital at the consulate stands out almost alone as an
episode of human beauty, and I dwell on it with satisfaction. But it was
not regarded at the time with universal favour; and even to-day its
institution is thought by many to have been impolitic. It was opened, it
stood open, for the wounded of either party. As a matter of fact it was
never used but by the Mataafas, and the Tamaseses were cared for
exclusively by German doctors. In the progressive decivilisation of the
town, these duties of humanity became thus a ground of quarrel. When the
Mataafa hurt were first brought together after the battle of Matautu, and
some more or less amateur surgeons were dressing wounds on a green by the
wayside, one from the German consulate went by in the road. "Why don't
you let the dogs die?" he asked. "Go to hell," was the rejoinder. Such
were the amenities of Apia. But Becker reserved for himself the extreme
expression of this spirit. On November 7th host