ther
side, nestling among the trees, a white man's house; he made up his mind
and, rather gingerly, began to walk. He watched his feet carefully, and
where one trunk joined on to the next and there was a difference of
level, he tottered a little. It was with a gasp of relief that he
reached the last tree and finally set his feet on the firm ground of
the other side. He had been so intent on the difficult crossing that he
never noticed anyone was watching him, and it was with surprise that he
heard himself spoken to.

"It takes a bit of nerve to cross these bridges when you're not used to
them."

He looked up and saw a man standing in front of him. He had evidently
come out of the house which he had seen.

"I saw you hesitate," the man continued, with a smile on his lips, "and
I was watching to see you fall in."

"Not on your life," said the captain, who had now recovered his
confidence.

"I've fallen in myself before now. I remember, one evening I came back
from shooting, and I fell in, gun and all. Now I get a boy to carry my
gun for me."

He was a man no longer young, with a small beard, now somewhat grey, and
a thin face. He was dressed in a singlet, without arms, and a pair of
duck trousers. He wore neither shoes nor socks. He spoke English with a
slight accent.

"Are you Neilson?" asked the skipper.

"I am."

"I've heard about you. I thought you lived somewheres round here."

The skipper followed his host into the little bungalow and sat down
heavily in the chair which the other motioned him to take. While Neilson
went out to fetch whisky and glasses he took a look round the room. It
filled him with amazement. He had never seen so many books. The shelves
reached from floor to ceiling on all four walls, and they were closely
packed. There was a grand piano littered with music, and a large table
on which books and magazines lay in disorder. The room made him feel
embarrassed. He remembered that Neilson was a queer fellow. No one knew
very much about him, although he had been in the islands for so many
years, but those who knew him agreed that he was queer. He was a Swede.

"You've got one big heap of books here," he said, when Neilson returned.

"They do no harm," answered Neilson with a smile.

"Have you read them all?" asked the skipper.

"Most of them."

"I'm a bit of a reader myself. I have the _Saturday Evening Post_ sent
me regler."

Neilson poured his visitor a good stiff glass of whisky