wrist, Patteson pulled it through, though the agony of the boy was
very great.

The arrows were wooden-headed and not poisoned. The wounds seemed to
be healing, but a few days later Fisher said, "I can't make out what
makes my jaws feel so stiff."

Fisher Young was the grandson of fierce, foul Pitcairn Island
cannibals, and was himself a brave and pure Christian lad. He had
faced death with his master many times on coral reefs, in savage
villages, on wild seas and under the clubs of Pacific islanders. Now
he was face to face with something more difficult than a swift
and dangerous adventure--the slow, dying agony of lockjaw. He grew
steadily worse in spite of everything that Patteson could do.

Near to the end he said faintly, "Kiss me; I am very glad I was doing
my duty. Tell my father that I was in the path of duty, and he will be
so glad. Poor Santa Cruz people!"

He spoke in that way of the people who had killed him. The young brown
hero lies to-day, as he would have wished, in the port that was named
after the Bishop whom he loved, and who was his hero, Port Patteson.

"I loved him," said Patteson, "as I think I never loved anyone else."
Fisher's love to his Bishop had been that of a youth to the hero whom
he worships, but Patteson had led that brown islander still further,
for he had taught the boy to love the Hero of all heroes, Jesus
Christ.