ll as for the saloon. It is a large
square room, with three entrances, and opposite the bar, which runs the
length of it, two corners have been partitioned off into little
cubicles. Legend states that they were built so that King Kalakaua might
drink there without being seen by his subjects, and it is pleasant to
think that in one or other of these he may have sat over his bottle, a
coal-black potentate, with Robert Louis Stevenson. There is a portrait
of him, in oils, in a rich gold frame; but there are also two prints of
Queen Victoria. On the walls, besides, are old line engravings of the
eighteenth century, one of which, and heaven knows how it got there, is
after a theatrical picture by De Wilde; and there are oleographs from
the Christmas supplements of the _Graphic_ and the _Illustrated London
News_ of twenty years ago. Then there are advertisements of whisky, gin,
champagne, and beer; and photographs of baseball teams and of native
orchestras.

The place seemed to belong not to the modern, hustling world that I had
left in the bright street outside, but to one that was dying. It had the
savour of the day before yesterday. Dingy and dimly lit, it had a
vaguely mysterious air and you could imagine that it would be a fit
scene for shady transactions. It suggested a more lurid time, when
ruthless men carried their lives in their hands, and violent deeds
diapered the monotony of life.

When I went in the saloon was fairly full. A group of business men stood
together at the bar, discussing affairs, and in a corner two Kanakas
were drinking. Two or three men who might have been store-keepers were
shaking dice. The rest of the company plainly followed the sea; they
were captains of tramps, first mates, and engineers. Behind the bar,
busily making the Honolulu cocktail for which the place was famous,
served two large half-castes, in white, fat, clean-shaven and dark
skinned, with thick, curly hair and large bright eyes.

Winter seemed to know more than half the company, and when we made our
way to the bar a little fat man in spectacles, who was standing by
himself, offered him a drink.

"No, you have one with me, Captain," said Winter.

He turned to me.

"I want you to know Captain Butler."

The little man shook hands with me. We began to talk, but, my attention
distracted by my surroundings, I took small notice of him, and after we
had each ordered a cocktail we separated. When we had got into the motor
again a