a mile--to the weather
side, where we should not only get the breeze, but be free of the curse
of mosquitoes.

"Over to the windward beach," we called out to our natives.

In an instant, men, women and children were on their feet. Torches of
dried coco-nut leaves were deftly woven by the women, sleeping mats
rolled up and given to the children to carry, baskets of cold baked fish
and vegetables hurriedly taken down from where they hung under the eaves
of the thatched huts, and away we trooped eastward along the
narrow path, the red glare of the torches shining upon the smooth,
copper-bronzed and half-nude figures of the native men and women.
Singing as we went, half an hour's walk brought us near to the sea. And
with the hum of the surf came the cool breeze, as we reached the open,
and saw before us the gently heaving ocean, sleeping under the light of
the myriad stars.

We loved those quiet nights on the weather side of Arrecifos. Our
natives had built some thatched-roofed, open-sided huts as a protection
in case of rain, and under the shelter of one of these the skipper and
I would, when it rained during the night, lie on our mats and smoke
and yarn and watch the women and children with lighted torches catching
crayfish on the reef, heedless of the rain which fell upon them. Then,
when they had caught all they wanted, they would troop on shore again,
come into the huts, change their soaking waist girdles of leaves for
waist-cloths of gaily-coloured print or navy-blue calico, and set to
work to cook the crayfish, always bringing us the best. Then came a
general gossip and story-telling or singing in our hut for an hour
or so, and then some one would yawn and the rest would laugh, bid us
good-night, go off to their mats, and the skipper and I would be asleep
ere we knew it.

CHAPTER VIII ~ THE CRANKS OF THE _JULIA_ BRIG

We were bound from Tahiti to the Gilbert Islands, seeking a cargo of
native labourers for Stewart's great plantation at Tahiti, and had
worked our way from island to island up northward through the group
with fair success (having obtained ninety odd stalwart, brown-skinned
savages), when between Apaian Island and Butaritari Island we spoke a
lumbering, fat-sided old brig--the _Isabella_ of Sydney.

The _Isabella_ was owned by a firm of Chinese merchants in Sydney;
and as her skipper (Evers) and her supercargo (Dick Warren) were old
acquaintances of mine and also of the captain of my ship, w