pidity is his
inability to understand the niggers. But there's one thing sure, the
white has to run the niggers whether he understands them or not. It's
inevitable. It's fate."

"And of course the white man is inevitable--it's the niggers' fate,"
Roberts broke in. "Tell the white man there's pearl shell in some lagoon
infested by ten-thousand howling cannibals, and he'll head there all by
his lonely, with half a dozen kanaka divers and a tin alarm clock for
chronometer, all packed like sardines on a commodious, five-ton ketch.
Whisper that there's a gold strike at the North Pole, and that same
inevitable white-skinned creature will set out at once, armed with pick
and shovel, a side of bacon, and the latest patent rocker--and what's
more, he'll get there. Tip it off to him that there's diamonds on the
red-hot ramparts of hell, and Mr. White Man will storm the ramparts
and set old Satan himself to pick-and-shovel work. That's what comes of
being stupid and inevitable."

"But I wonder what the black man must think of the--the inevitableness,"
I said.

Captain Woodward broke into quiet laughter. His eyes had a reminiscent
gleam.

"I'm just wondering what the niggers of Malu thought and still must be
thinking of the one inevitable white man we had on board when we visited
them in the DUCHESS," he explained.

Roberts mixed three more Abu Hameds.

"That was twenty years ago. Saxtorph was his name. He was certainly the
most stupid man I ever saw, but he was as inevitable as death. There was
only one thing that chap could do, and that was shoot. I remember the
first time I ran into him--right here in Apia, twenty years ago. That
was before your time, Roberts. I was sleeping at Dutch Henry's hotel,
down where the market is now. Ever heard of him? He made a tidy stake
smuggling arms in to the rebels, sold out his hotel, and was killed in
Sydney just six weeks afterward in a saloon row.

"But Saxtorph. One night I'd just got to sleep, when a couple of cats
began to sing in the courtyard. It was out of bed and up window, water
jug in hand. But just then I heard the window of the next room go up.
Two shots were fired, and the window was closed. I fail to impress you
with the celerity of the transaction. Ten seconds at the outside. Up
went the window, bang bang went the revolver, and down went the window.
Whoever it was, he had never stopped to see the effect of his shots. He
knew. Do you follow me?--he KNEW. There was no mo