OF THE SOUTH SEAS 147 



precipices, and brooks, as picturesque as the landscape 

 of a dream. We walked only as far as Uruf ara, a mile 

 or two, and stopped there at the camp of a Scotsman 

 who offered accommodation of board and lodging. 



His sketchy hotel and outhouses were dilapidated, but 

 they were in the most beautiful surrounding conceivable, 

 a sheltered cove of the lagoon where the swaying palms 

 dipped their boles in the ultramarine, and bulky banana- 

 plants and splendid breadfruit-trees formed a temple of 

 shadow and coolth whence one might look straight up 

 the lowering mountain-side to the ghostly domes, or 

 across the radiant water to the white thread of reef. 



We met McTavish, the host of the hotel, an aging 

 planter, who kept his public house as an adjunct of his 

 farm, and more for sociability than gain. He was in 

 a depressed and angry mood, for one of his eyes was 

 closed, and the other battered about the rim and begin- 

 ning to turn black and blue. 



He knew McHenry, for both had been in these seas 

 half their lives. 



"In all my sixty years," he said, "I have not been as- 

 saulted quite so viciously. I asked him for what he 

 owed me, and the next I knew he was shutting out the 

 light with his fists. I will go to the gendarme for a 

 contravention against that villain. And right now I 

 will fix him in my book." 



"Why, who hit you, and what did you do?" asked 

 McHenry. 



"That damned Londoner, Hobson," said McTavish. 

 "He was my guest here several years ago, and ate and 

 drank well for a month or two when he had n't a sou 

 marquis. I needed a little money to-day, and meeting 



