certificates, purporting to come from certain man-of-war and
merchant captains, known to have visited the island; recommending him
as one of the best getters up of fine linen in all Polynesia.

At this time, Arheetoo had known me but two hours; and, as he made the
proposition very coolly, I thought it rather presumptuous, and told
him so. But as it was quite impossible to convey a hint, and there
was a slight impropriety in the thing, I did not resent the insult,
but simply declined.

CHAPTER XLIII.

ONE IS JUDGED BY THE COMPANY HE KEEPS

ALTHOUGH, from its novelty, life at Captain Bob's was pleasant enough,
for the time; there were some few annoyances connected with it
anything but agreeable to a "soul of sensibility."

Prejudiced against us by the malevolent representations of the consul
and others, many worthy foreigners ashore regarded us as a set of
lawless vagabonds; though, truth to speak, better behaved sailors
never stepped on the island, nor any who gave less trouble to the
natives. But, for all this, whenever we met a respectably-dressed
European, ten to one he shunned us by going over to the other side of
the road. This was very unpleasant, at least to myself; though,
certes, it did not prey upon the minds of the others.

To give an instance.

Of a fine evening in Tahiti--but they are all fine evenings there--you
may see a bevy of silk bonnets and parasols passing along the Broom
Road: perhaps a band of pale, little white urchins--sickly
exotics--and, oftener still, sedate, elderly gentlemen, with canes;
at whose appearance the natives, here and there, slink into their
huts. These are the missionaries, their wives, and children, taking a
family airing. Sometimes, by the bye, they take horse, and ride down
to Point Venus and back; a distance of several miles. At this place
is settled the only survivor of the first missionaries that
landed--an old, white-headed, saint-like man, by the name of Wilson,
the father of our friend, the consul.

The little parties on foot were frequently encountered; and,
recalling, as they did, so many pleasant recollections of home and
the ladies, I really longed for a dress coat and beaver that I might
step up and pay my respects. But, situated as I was, this was out of
the question. On one occasion, however, I received a kind, inquisitive
glance from a matron in gingham. Sweet lady! I have not forgotten
her: her gown was a plaid.

But a glance, like hers, was not