OF THE SOUTH SEAS 251 



The pare was the occasional assembhng-place for the 

 drifting whites made thoughtful by trolling the jolly, 

 brown bowl, and by those to whom lack of francs denied 

 the trolling. It was there I first met Ivan Stroganoff, 

 the aged Russian philosopher, and it was from there I 

 took Wilfrid Baillon to the hospital. Baillon was a 

 very handsome cow-boy from British Columbia, and 

 was housed in Papeete with a giant Scandinavian who 

 owned a cattle ranch in South America. He was gen- 

 erally called the Great Dane, and was the person meant 

 in the charge for three cocktails at Lovaina's: "Germani 

 to Fany, 3 feathers." 



The cow-boy became ill. I prescribed castor-oil, and 

 Mme. Fanny, half a tumbler of Martinique rum, with 

 the juice of a lime in it. She was famous for this rem- 

 edy for all internal troubles, and I took one with the cow- 

 boy as a prophylactic, as I might have been exposed to 

 the same germs. He did not improve, though he fol- 

 lowed Fanny's regimen exactty. He was sitting de- 

 jectedly in the pare, looking pale and thin, when I 

 broached the subject. 



"As the Fanny physic fails to straighten you out," I 

 said to him, "why not try the hospital?" 



He recoiled. 



"Have you ever lamped it?" he asked. "It looks like 

 a calaboose." 



"It ain't so bad," said Kelly, the I.W.W., who was 

 proselyting as usual among the flotsam and jetsam of 

 the waterfront. "I 've been in worse joints in the 

 United States." 



The cow-boy yielding, I escorted him to the institu- 

 tion, carrying his bag, as what with his disease and his 



