other table, with his glass of Pernoud. "Germany and England have
come to blows. Now that accursed nation of beer-swillers will get
their lesson."

The subject was seriously discussed, the armaments of the two powers
quoted, and the certainty of Germany's defeat predicted, the Frenchman
asserting vehemently that France would aid England if necessary, or to
get back Alsace-Lorraine. There were gatherings all over Papeete, the
war rumor having been made an alleged certainty by some inexplicable
communication to an unnamed merchant.

The natives hoped fervently that the war was between France and
Germany, and that France would be defeated. After generations of rule
by France, the vanquished still felt an aversion to their conquerors
here, as in the Holy Land when Herod ruled.

"I hope France get his," said a chief, aside, to me.

The mail's delay upset all business. Letters closed on the day
the liner was expected were reopened. For three days the girls at
Lovaina's had worn their best peignoirs, and several times donned
shoes and stockings to go to the quay. Passengers for San Francisco
who had packed their trunks had unpacked them. The air of expectancy
which Papeete wore for a day or two before steamer-day had been so
heated by postponement that nerves came to the surface.

Tahiti was a place of no exact knowledge. Few residents knew the names
of the streets. Some of the larger business houses had no signs to
indicate the firms' names or what they sold. Hardly any one knew the
names of the trees or the flowers or fishes or shells.

A story once told, even facts thoroughly well known, changed with
each repetition. A month after an occurrence one might search in vain
for the actuality. It was more difficult to learn truthful details
than anywhere I had been. The French are niggardly of publications
concerning Tahiti. An almanac once a year contained a few figures and
facts of interest, but with no newspapers within thousands of miles,
every person was his own journal, and prejudices and interest dictated
all oral records.

McHenry hushed war reports to talk about Brown, an American merchant
who had left the club a moment before, after a Bourbon straight
alone at the bar. McHenry was a trader, mariner, adventurer,
gambler, and boaster. Rough and ready, witty, profane, and obscene,
he bubbled over with tales of reef and sea, of women and men he had
met, of lawless tricks on natives, of storm and starvation, and of