onsultation with the
negro. The pair looked so ill-assorted, and the awe with which the
drinkers fell back and left them in the midst of an _impromptu_ privacy
was so unusual in such a place, that I turned to my next neighbour with
a question. He told me the blind man was a distinguished party boss,
called by some the King of San Francisco, but perhaps better known by
his picturesque Chinese nickname of the Blind White Devil. "The Lambs
must be wanted pretty bad, I guess," my informant added. I have here a
sketch of the Blind White Devil leaning on the counter; on the next
page, and taken the same hour, a jotting of Black Tom threatening a
whole crowd of customers with a long Smith and Wesson--to such heights
and depths we rose and fell in the front parts of the saloon!

Meanwhile, away in the back quarters, sat the small informal South Sea
Club, talking of another world, and surely of a different century. Old
schooner captains they were, old South Sea traders, cooks, and mates;
fine creatures, softened by residence among a softer race: full men
besides, though not by reading, but by strange experience; and for days
together I could hear their yarns with an unfading pleasure. All had,
indeed, some touch of the poetic; for the beach-comber, when not a mere
ruffian, is the poor relation of the artist. Even through Johnson's
inarticulate speech, his "O yes, there ain't no harm in them Kanakas,"
or "O yes, that's a son of a gun of a fine island, mountainous right
down; I didn't never ought to have left that island," there pierced a
certain gusto of appreciation; and some of the rest were master-talkers.
From their long tales, their traits of character and unpremeditated
landscape, there began to piece itself together in my head some image of
the islands and the island life; precipitous shores, spired
mountain-tops, the deep shade of hanging forests, the unresting surf
upon the reef, and the unending peace of the lagoon; sun, moon, and
stars of an imperial brightness; man moving in these scenes scarce
fallen, and woman lovelier than Eve; the primal curse abrogated, the bed
made ready for the stranger, life set to perpetual music, and the guest
welcomed, the boat urged, and the long night beguiled with poetry and
choral song. A man must have been an unsuccessful artist; he must have
starved on the streets of Paris; he must have been yoked to a commercial
force like Pinkerton, before he can conceive the longings that at times