fellows stay on and on, continue to drink, are never out of debt,
and never see their homes again. This practice has developed of late
years in consequence of the scarcity of labour, and is nothing but
slavery. It might easily be abolished by a slight effort on the part
of the Government, but there is hardly any supervision over French
plantations outside Port Vila, and in many plantations conditions exist
which are an insult to our modern views on humane treatment. On English
plantations there is but little brutality, owing to the Government's
careful supervision of the planters and the higher social and moral
standing of the settlers in general.

My host had some European conscience left, and treated his hands
very humanely, but I dare say that in course of time, and pressed
by adverse circumstances, even he resorted to means of finding cheap
labour which were none too fair. The French by-laws permit the delivery
of alcohol to natives in the shape of "medicine," a stipulation which
opens the door to every abuse.

The boys were soon on hand, each awaiting his turn eagerly, yet trying
to seem blase. Some drank greedily, others tasted the sour wine in
little sips like old experts; but all took care to turn their backs
to us while drinking, as if from bashfulness. Then they went to work,
giggling and happy.

Meanwhile, those on the sick-list were coming up for the planter's
inspection. The diseases are mostly tuberculosis, colds, indigestion,
fever and infections, and it is evident that if they receive any
medical treatment at all, it is of a primitive and insufficient
description. The planters work with fearfully strong plasters, patent
medicines and "universal remedies," used internally and externally
by turns, so that the patient howls and the spectator shudders, and
the results would be most disheartening if kind Nature did not often
do the healing in spite of man's efforts to prevent it. Naturally,
every planter thinks himself an expert doctor, and is perfectly
satisfied with his results.

Mr. Ch. was ill with fever, nevertheless we went down to the
work-shed. It was a pitch-dark night, the air was like that in a
hothouse, smelling of earth and mould. The surf boomed sullenly on the
beach, and heavy squalls flogged the forest. Sometimes a rotten branch
snapped, and the sound travelled, dull and heavy, through the night.

From far away we hear the noise of the engine peeling the
corn-ears. Two of the natives tur