e group to the house. Besides that,
neither of them noticed Ema; for Jim always got as drunk as his father
on such occasions of island harmony and foregathering of kindred
spirits.

*****

So for the past ten years the girl had grown up amongst these savage
surroundings--a fierce, turbulent, native race, delighting in deeds of
bloodshed, and only tolerating the presence of her father among them
because of his fair dealing and indomitable courage. In those far back,
olden days, when the low sandy islands of the Equatorial Pacific were
almost unknown (save to the few wandering white men who had cast their
lives among their wild and ferocious inhabitants, and the crews of the
American whaling fleet), no one but such a man as he would have dared
to dwell alone among the intractable and warlike people of Drummond's
Island.

But old Swain had lived for nearly forty years among the islands of the
South Seas, roaming from one end of the Pacific to the other, and his
bold nature was not one to be daunted. There was money to be made in
those times in the oil trade; yet sometimes, when he lay upon his couch
smoking his pipe, some vague idea would flit through his mind of going
back to the world again and ending his days in civilisation.

But with the coming morning such thoughts would vanish. How could he, a
man of sixty, he thought, give up the life he had led for forty years,
and take to the ways of white men in some great city? And then there
were Jim and Ema. Why, they would be worse off than he, poor things.
Neither of them could read or write; no more could he--but then he knew
something of the ways of white people, and they didn't. What would they
do if he took them to the States, and he died there? No! it wouldn't do.
They would all stay together. Jim would look after Em if he died. Yes,
Jim would. He was a good boy, and very fond of Em. A good boy! Yes, of
course he was, although he was a bit excitable when he came across any
grog. He hadn't always been like that, though. Perhaps he learnt it
aboard that man-o'-war.

And then the old trader, as he lay back on his rough couch, watching
the curling smoke wreaths from his pipe ascend to the thatched roof,
recalled to memory one day six years before, when the American cruiser
_Saginaw_ had anchored off the village of Utiroa, where Swain then
lived, and a group of the officers from the war-ship had stood talking
to him on the beach.

Beside him were his son and daughte