168 MYSTIC ISLES 



of his experiences. He had determined to turn author, 

 and to recoup his losses as much as possible by the sale 

 of his manuscript. With a stumpy pencil in hand, he 

 scratched his head, pursed his mouth, and wrote slowly. 

 He would not confide in me. He said he had had suf- 

 ferings enough to make money out of them, and would 

 talk only to magazine editors. 



"There 's Easter Island," he told me. "Those curi- 

 osities there are worth writing about, too. I Ve put 

 down a hundred sheets already. I 'm sorry, but I can't 

 talk to any one. I 'm going to take the boat with me, 

 and exhibit it in a museum and speak a piece." 



He was serious about his silence, and as my inquisi- 

 tiveness was now beyond restraint, I tried the sailors. 

 They would have no log, but their memories might be 

 good. 



Alex Simoneau, being of French descent, and speak- 

 ing the Gallic tongue, was not to be found at the Tiare. 

 He was at the Paris, or other cafe, surrounded by gap- 

 ing Frenchmen, who pressed upon him Pernoud, rum, 

 and the delicate wines of France. So great was his 

 absorption in his new friends, and so unbounded their 

 hospitality, that M. Lontane laid him by the heels to 

 rest him. Simoneau was wiry, talking the slang of the 

 New York waterfront, swearing that he would "hike 

 for Attleboro, and hoe potatoes until he died." I was 

 forced to seek Steve Drinkwater. Short, pillow-like, 

 as red-cheeked as a winter apple, and yellow-haired, he 

 was a Dutchman, unafraid of anything, stolid, powerful, 

 but not resourceful. I called Steve to my room above 

 Captain Benson's, and set before him a bottle of 

 schnapps, in a square-faced bottle, and a box of cigars. 



