OF THE SOUTH SEAS 123 



a darker color to the scene, the procureur-general, the 

 Martinique black, tall, protuberant, mopping his bald 

 head, took the center of the conclave. Noses were low- 

 ered and brought together, feet were stamped, hands 

 were wiggled behind backs, and right along the Ameri- 

 can, the agent, talked and talked. 



They demurred, they spat on the boards, they lifted 

 their hands aloft — and then they ordered the pilot to 

 return to the Noa-Noa, and that vessel, whistling long 

 and relievedly, pointed her nose toward the opening in 

 the reef. 



Mon Dieu! the suspense was over. The people 

 melted toward their homes and the restaurants, for it 

 was nearly seven o'clock. I drifted into the knot about 

 the officials. 



"It is in the archives," said the secretary-general. "It 

 will go down in history. That is enough." 



The delightful M. Lontane, in khaki riding breeches, 

 - — he, as all police, ride bicycles — his khaki hehiiet tipped 

 rakishly over his cigarette, blew a ringlet. 



"C'est comme pa. We would not press our victory," 

 he said gallantly. "We French are generous. We 

 have hearts." 



The secretary-general, the procureur general, the first 

 in command and the private secretary, sighted the car- 

 riage of the governor, who had not appeared until the 

 Noa-Noa was out of the lagoon, and they went to tell 

 him of the great affair. 



The agent of the line, grim and unsmiling, climbed to 

 the wide veranda of the Cercle Bougainville, and or- 

 dered a Scotch and siphon. 



"There she goes," he said to me, and pointed to the 



