ank
to our wives and ourselves and the coming Christmas, and to the brown
smiling faces of the people around us, who wondered why we grew merry
so suddenly; for sometimes, as they knew, we had all quarrelled with one
another, and bitter words had passed; for so it ever is, and ever shall
be, even in the far South Seas, when questions of 'trade' and 'money'
come between good fellowship and old-time _camaraderie_. And then sweet,
dark-eyed Sera, MacBride's young wife, took up her guitar and sang us
love songs in the old Lusitanian tongue of her father; and Tom Devine,
the ex-boat-steerer, and Charley de Buis, the reckless; and Peter
Huysmans, the red-faced, white-haired old Dutchman, all joined hands and
danced around the rough table; while Billy Grey and Ludwig Wolfen stood
on the top of it and sang, or tried to sing, 'Home Sweet Home'; and the
writer of this memory of those old Pacific days sat in a chair in the
doorway and wondered where we should all be the next year. For, as we
sang and danced, and the twang, twang of Sera's guitar sounded through
the silent night without, Tom Devine, the American, held up his hand to
MacBride, and silence fell.

'Boys,' he said, 'let us drink to the memory of the far-off faces of
those dear ones whom we never may see again!'

He paused a moment, and then caught sight of Sera as she bent over her
guitar with downcast eyes; 'And to those who are with us now--our wives
and our children, and our friends! Drink, my boys; and the first man
who, either to-night or to-morrow, talks about business and dirty,
filthy dollars, shall get fired out right away before he knows where he
is; for this is Christmas time--and, Sera MacBride, why the devil don't
you play something and keep me from making a fool of myself?'

So Sera, with a twist of her lithe body and a merry gleam in her full,
big eyes, sang another song; and then long, bony MacBride came over to
her and kissed her on her fair, smooth forehead, whispered something
that we did not hear, and pointed to Charley de Buis, who stood, glass
in hand, at the furthest corner of the big room, his thin, suntanned
face as grave and sober as that of an English judge.

'Gentlemen'--(then _sotto voce_ to the chairman in the doorway, 'Just
fancy us South Sea loafers calling ourselves gentlemen!')--'gentlemen,
we are here to spend a good time, and I move that we quit speech-making
and start the women on that cake. Tom Devine and myself are, as you
kno