y pull out to the ship in the dark."

We went into a little bay, and found the natives waiting for us with the
yams, and Hickson, after inquiring the way to the Mission, left me.

*****

Ponape in those days was a rough place. It was the rendezvous of the
American whaling fleet, that came there for wood and water and "other
supplies," before they sailed northward along the grim coasts of Japan
and Tchantar Bay to the whale grounds of the Arctic Seas.

And sometimes there would be trouble over the "other supplies" among the
savagely licentious crews of mixed men of all nations, and knives would
flash, and the white sand of the beaches be stuck together in places
with patches and clots of dull red. It was the whalers' paradise--a
paradise of the loveliest tropical beauty, of palm-shaded beach and
verdure-clad mountain imaginable; a paradise of wonderfully beautiful
and utterly, hopelessly immoral native women; and, lastly, a paradise of
cheap native grog, as potent and fiery as if Hell had been boiled down
and concentrated into a small half-pint.

It was dark, and the yams had all been brought and stored in the boat
before Hickson returned. By the flickering light of a native fire in a
house close by I could see that something was the matter with him. His
face was drawn, and his black eyes gleamed out like dully burning coals
from the thick wavy hair that fell about his temples.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, and the moment he had spoken I knew
by the dangerous huskiness of his voice that he had been drinking the
native grog.

Staggering into the boat, he sat down beside me and took the tiller.

"Give way, _fanau seoli_ (children o hell)," he growled to our crew of
Samoans and Rotumah boys, "let us get these yams aboard, and then I'm
coming back to burn the ------ mission-house down."

Slowly the heavily-laden boat got way on her, and we slid away from the
light of the native fire out into the inky blackness of night. Beyond a
muttered curse at the crew, and keeping up that horrible grinding of
the teeth common enough to men of violent passions when under great
excitement, Hickson said nothing further till I asked--

"Hickson, what's the matter? Couldn't you find your sister?"

He sat up straight, and gripping my knee in his left hand till I winced,
said, with an awful preliminary burst of blasphemy--

"By God, sir, she's gone to hell; I'll never see poor little Katia
again. I'm not drunk, don't you think it