298 MYSTIC ISLES 



hours' driving, and leaving the coachman to care for the 

 horses, we went with the chief, each of us carrying a 

 siphon of seltzer or a bottle of champagne or claret. 

 Our way was through an old and dark cocoanut grove, 

 a bare trail, winding among the trees, and ending at the 

 beach. 



Polonsky had had built a pavilion for the revel. 

 Fifty feet away was a kitchen in which the dinner was 

 cooking, its odors adding appetite to that whetted by 

 the several cocktails which Polonsky had mixed when 

 the ice was brought in a wheelbarrow from the wagon. 



We sat down in chairs on the turf a foot from the 

 jetty boulders, and watched the inrush of the breakers. 

 A light breeze outside had stirred the water, and the 

 combers were white and high. 



"Every sea is really three seas," said McHenry, pipe 

 in hand, as he sipped his Martini. "We fellows who 

 have to risk our cargoes and lives in landing in the Pau- 

 motus and Marquesas, study the accursed surf to find 

 out its rules. There are rules, too, and the ninth wave 

 is the one we come in on. That is the last of the third 

 group, the biggest, and the one that will bring your boat 

 near enough to shore to let all hands leap out and run 

 her up away from the undertow." 



Lights were placed in the new house. It was ele- 

 gantly made, of small bamboos up and down, with a 

 floor of matched boards, the roof of cocoanut-leaves, 

 and hung with blossoms of many kinds. The table had 

 been spread, and there was a glitter of silver and glass, 

 with all the accoutrements of fashion. We sat down, 

 eight, the chief making nine, and ate and drank until 

 ten o'clock. The piece de resistance was the sucking 



