puzzled why six thousand primitive savages let one degenerate Scotch
despot live.

One hot afternoon McAllister and I sat on the veranda looking out over
the lagoon, with all its wonder of jeweled colors. At our backs,
across the hundred yards of palm-studded sand, the outer surf roared
on the reef. It was dreadfully warm. We were in four degree south
latitude and the sun was directly overhead, having crossed the Line a
few days before on its journey south. There was no wind--not even a
catspaw. The season of the southeast trade was drawing to an early
close, and the northwest monsoon had not yet begun to blow.

"They can't dance worth a damn," said McAllister.

I had happened to mention that the Polynesian dances were superior to
the Papuan, and this McAllister had denied, for no other reason than
his cantankerousness. But it was too hot to argue, and I said nothing.
Besides, I had never seen the Oolong people dance.

"I'll prove it to you," he announced, beckoning to the black New
Hanover boy, a labor recruit, who served as cook and general house
servant. "Hey, you, boy, you tell 'm one fella king come along me."

The boy departed, and back came the prime minister, perturbed, ill at
ease, and garrulous with apologetic explanation. In short, the king
slept, and was not to be disturbed.

"King he plenty strong fella sleep," was his final sentence.

McAllister was in such a rage that the prime minister incontinently