of the pastor's whip thrown
in extra. It was a crime to miss church, and a crime to flirt or make
love, and the biggest crime of all was not to come up handsome with
church offerings when they were demanded. If you will believe me it was
a crime to _grieve_ too much if somebody died--if the dead person were
married that is, and if you were of the opposite sex and not closely
related!

As I said before, the natives were so easy-going that they took it all
lying down, and allowed this here David to swell into a regular despot,
though there must have been coming on two thousand of them, and him with
nothing but his bell and his whip and his big roaring voice. Naturally
he did not dare interfere with us white men, though Stanley and I toed
the line more than we liked for the sake of business and keeping clear
of his ill will. The only one who wasn't scared of the old Tartar, and
stood right up to him, was a hulking big Fijian, named Peter Jones.
Nobody knew how he came by that name for there wasn't a white drop in
his body, he being unusually dark and powerful and full of the Old Nick,
and with a mop of hair on him like you never saw, it was that thick and
long and stood out on end all round his head which was the Fiji fashion
of wearing it.

Peter could lick his weight in wildcats, as the saying goes, and was
always ready to do it at the fall of a hat. He was a bullying,
overbearing individual and had terrorized his way into a family and
married their daughter, helping himself promiscuous, besides, to
anything he fancied, with nobody daring to cross him nor complain.
Stanley and I were afraid of him and that's the truth, and gave him a
little credit for peace and quietness' sake, which was well worth an
occasional can of beef or a fathom or two of Turkey cotton.

Once, when there was a ship in, he got most outrageously drunk, and
rolled about the village, singing and yelling--swigging from the bottle
he carried and stumbling after the girls, trying to hug them. If ever
there was a scandal in Raka-hanga it was the sight of this
six-foot-three of raving, roaring savage, rough-housing the place upside
down and bellowing insults at the top of his lungs. But nothing was done
to stop him till the liquor took its course, and then old David, he
gathered the Parliament about him, and ran him into the jail with a
one-two-three like a sack of oats.

But Peter Jones was none of your stand-up-at-the-altar-and-repent-boys,
being a