MYSTIC ISLES 141 



The cooks, Moorea men, removed a layer of earth that 

 had been laid on cocoa-palm leaves. This was the 

 cover of the oven. Immediately below the leaves were 

 yams and feis and under them a layer of banana leaves. 

 The pig came next. It had been cut into pieces as big 

 as mutton-chops and had cooked two and a half hours. 

 It was on stones, coral, under which the fire of wood 

 had been thoroughly ignited, the stones heated, and then 

 the different layers placed above. The pig was tender, 

 succulent, and the yams and feis finely flavored. 



The two native men, in parens, and with crowns of 

 scarlet hibiscus, waited on us, while the son of Llewellyn 

 uncorked the bottles. As usual, the beverages were 

 lavishly dispensed, beginning with Scotch whisky as an 

 appetizer, and following with claret, sauterne, vintage 

 Burgundy, and a champagne that would have pleased 

 Paris. These more expensive beverages were for us 

 hosts only. 



We were an odd company: Llewellyn, a Welsh- 

 Tahitian ; Landers, a British New-Zealander ; McHenry, 

 Scotch- American ; Polonsky, Polish-French; Schlyter, 

 the Swedish tailor; David, an American vanilla-grower; 

 "Lying Bill," English; and I, American. There was 

 little talk at breakfast. They were trenchermen be- 

 yond compare, and the dishes were emptied as fast as 

 filled. These men have no gifts of conversation in 

 groups. Though we had only one half -white of the 

 party, Llewellyn, he to a large degree set the pace 

 of words and drink. In him the European blood, of 

 the best in the British Isles, arrested the abandon of 

 the aborigine, and created a hesitant blend of dignity 

 and awkwardness. He was a striking-looking man, 



