142 MYSTIC ISLES 



very tall, slender, about fifty years old, swarthy, with 

 hair as black as night, and eyebrows like small mus- 

 taches, the eyes themselves in caverns, usually dull and 

 dour, but when he talked, spots of light. I thought of 

 that blaster of Ballantrae of Stevenson's, though for all 

 I remember he was blond. Yet the characters of the 

 two blended in my mind, and I tried to match them the 

 more I saw of him. He was born here, and after an edu- 

 cation abroad and a sowing of wild oats over years of 

 life in Europe, had lived here the last twenty-five years. 

 He was in trade, like almost every one here, but I saw no 

 business instincts or habits about him. One found him 

 most of the time at the Cercle Bougainville, drinking 

 sauterne and siphon water, shaking for the drinks, or 

 playing ecarte for five francs a game. 



Below the salt sat his son and his nephew, men of 

 twenty-five j^ears, but sons of Tahitian mothers, and 

 without the culture or European education of their 

 fathers. With them two chauffeurs were seated. One 

 of these, an American, the driver for Polonsky, had tar- 

 ried here on a trip about the world, and was persuaded to 

 take employment with Polonsky. The other was a half- 

 caste, a handsome man of fifty, whose employer treated 

 him like a friend. 



Breakfast lasted two hours for us. For the band it 

 kept on until dinner, for they did not leave the table 

 from noon, when we sat down, until dark. When they 

 did not eat, they drank. Occasionally one of us slipped 

 down and took his place with them. I sat with them 

 half an hour, while they honored me with "Johnny 

 Burrown," "The Good, Old Sunmiertime," and "Every- 

 body Doin' It." 



