red of dozens of people--people who had
lived there all their lives--but they looked blank when I spoke of
waterwheels. I drew pictures of it, but that didn't enlighten them.

Finally in despair, after a week of vain searching, I drew the plans for
a waterwheel and had it made. And I am taking it home with me, hoping
that it may make music. Next year, owing to the demand I created for
waterwheels, I suppose the Javanese will start making them for the
tourist trade.

[Drawing: _Java in a State of High Cultivation_]

Just as Russia is the land of "nitchevo," Spain the land of "manana,"
and China the land of "maskee," so Java is the land of "never mind." You
will hear the expression dozens of times in the course of a talk between
residents of Java--at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end of
sentences.

"I think it will rain to-morrow, but--never mind."

"I missed the train, but--never mind."

"I'm not feeling well, but--never mind."

You hear it all the time, all through Java.

In Java we had the best coffee we had struck since leaving Paris, in
fact, the first real good coffee we had found. Even worthy Abdullah, our
camp cook, was considerable of a failure at coffee making. The Boro
Boedoer ruins are among the most stupendous in the world; the volcanoes
of Java are like chimneys in Pittsburg, the terraced rice fields are
beautiful beyond belief, but--never mind. I think I shall remember Java
chiefly for its delicious coffee and for my house-to-house hunt for a
waterwheel.

I was sitting one day in the Singapore club talking to Colonel Glover of
the British army, when a hand tapped me on my shoulder. I looked around
and there stood the King of Christmas Island. I no more expected to see
him than I did the great Emperor Charlemagne, for it had been many years
since we were college mates at Purdue University. His story is romantic.
He is the nephew of Sir John Murray, who owns immense phosphate deposits
in Christmas Island, two hundred miles south of Java Head. Years ago he
went out to help work these great deposits and has climbed up until now
he is the virtual head of the island. His authority is absolute and he
has come to be called the King of Christmas Island. His every-day name
is that of his distinguished uncle, Sir John, but his Sunday name is
"King."

For a day or two we motored around Singapore and it was worth seeing to
note how the tourists stared when I casually said, "Well, King, let's
have