ella trader he one fella. You fella kanaka plenty fella too
much. You fella kanaka just like 'm dog--plenty fright along that fella
trader. He no eat you, fella. He no get 'm teeth along him. What name
you too much fright?"

"S'pose plenty fella kanaka kill 'm?" he asked.

"He die," I retorted. "You fella kanaka kill 'm plenty fella white man
long time before. What name you fright this fella white man?"

"Yes, we kill 'm plenty," was his answer. "My word! Any amount! Long
time before. One time, me young fella too much, one big fella ship he
stop outside. Wind he no blow. Plenty fella kanaka we get 'm canoe,
plenty fella canoe, we go catch 'm that fella ship. My word--we catch 'm
big fella fight. Two, three white men shoot like hell. We no fright.
We come alongside, we go up side, plenty fella, maybe I think fifty-ten
(five hundred). One fella white Mary (woman) belong that fella ship.
Never before I see 'm white Mary. Bime by plenty white man finish. One
fella skipper he no die. Five fella, six fella white man no die. Skipper
he sing out. Some fella white man he fight. Some fella white man he
lower away boat. After that, all together over the side they go. Skipper
he sling white Mary down. After that they washee (row) strong fella
plenty too much. Father belong me, that time he strong fella. He throw
'm one fella spear. That fella spear he go in one side that white Mary.
He no stop. My word, he go out other side that fella Mary. She finish.
Me no fright. Plenty kanaka too much no fright."

Old Oti's pride had been touched, for he suddenly stripped down his
lava-lava and showed me the unmistakable scar of a bullet. Before I
could speak, his line ran out suddenly. He checked it and attempted to
haul in, but found that the fish had run around a coral branch. Casting
a look of reproach at me for having beguiled him from his watchfulness,
he went over the side, feet first, turning over after he got under and
following his line down to bottom. The water was ten fathoms. I leaned
over and watched the play of his feet, growing dim and dimmer, as they
stirred the wan phosphorescence into ghostly fires. Ten fathoms--sixty
feet--it was nothing to him, an old man, compared with the value of a
hook and line. After what seemed five minutes, though it could not have
been more than a minute, I saw him flaming whitely upward. He broke
surface and dropped a ten pound rock cod into the canoe, the line and
hook intact, the latter still