CHAPTER XIII 



The beach-combers of Papeete — The consuls tell their troubles — A bogus 

 lord — The American boot-blacks — The cowboy in the hospital — 

 Ormsby, the supercargo — The death of Tahia — The Christchurch Kid — 

 The Nature men — Ivan Stroganoff's desire for a new gland. 



I PLAYED badminton some afternoons at the 

 British consulate. The old wooden bungalow, 

 with broad verandas, stood in a small garden a 

 dozen yards from the lagoon, where the Broom Road 

 narrowed as it left the business portion of Papeete and 

 began its round of the island. There was just room 

 enough on the salt grass for the shuttlecock to fall out 

 of bounds, and for the battledores to swing free of the 

 branches of the trees. The consul, though he wore a 

 monocle, was without the pretense of officialdom except 

 to other officials and, of course, at receptions, dinners, 

 and formal gatherings. After the games, with tea on 

 the veranda, I heard many stories of island life, of of- 

 ficial amenities, and the compound of nationalities in our 

 little world. 



Half a dozen intimates of the consul dropped in about 

 four, Willi, the rich dentist and acting American con- 

 sul; Stevens, the London broker; Hobson, who closed 

 an eye for the Moorean, McTavish; and others. All 

 were British except me, but our home tongue and cus- 

 toms drew us closer together than to Frenchmen, and 

 we could speak with some freedom on local affairs. If 

 no woman was present other than the cosmopolitan wife 



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