and mate, and escaped in a body to Malaita. But I always said they were
careless on Hohono. They won’t catch us napping here. Come along, Mr.
Arkwright, and see our view from the veranda.”
Bertie was too busy wondering how he could get away to Tulagi to the
Commissioner’s house, to see much of the view. He was still wondering, when a
rifle exploded very near to him, behind his back. At the same moment his arm
was nearly dislocated, so eagerly did Mr. Harriwell drag him indoors.
“I say, old man, that was a close shave,” said the manager, pawing him over to
see if he had been hit. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But it was broad
daylight, and I never dreamed.”
Bertie was beginning to turn pale.
“They got the other manager that way,” McTavish vouchsafed. “And a dashed fine
chap he was. Blew his brains out all over the veranda. You noticed that dark
stain there between the steps and the door?”
Bertie was ripe for the cocktail which Mr. Harriwell pitched in and compounded
for him; but before he could drink it, a man in riding trousers and puttees
entered.
“What’s the matter now?” the manager asked, after one look at the newcomer’s
face. “Is the river up again?”
“River be blowed–it’s the niggers. Stepped out of the cane grass, not a dozen
feet away, and whopped at me. It was a Snider, and he shot from the hip. Now
what I want to know is where’d he get that Snider?–Oh, I beg pardon. Glad to
know you, Mr. Arkwright.”
“Mr. Brown is my assistant,” explained Mr. Harriwell. “And now let’s have that
drink.”
“But where’d he get that Snider?” Mr. Brown insisted. “I always objected to
keeping those guns on the premises.”
“They’re still there,” Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat.
Mr. Brown smiled incredulously.
“Come along and see,” said the manager.
Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed
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triumphantly at a big packing case in a dusty corner.
“Well, then where did the beggar get that Snider?” harped Mr. Brown.
But just then McTavish lifted the packing case. The manager started, then tore
off the lid. The case was empty. They gazed at one another in horrified
silence. Harriwell drooped wearily.
Then McVeigh cursed.
“What I contended all along–the house-boys are not to be trusted.”
“It does look serious,” Harriwell admitted, “but we’ll come through it all
right. What the sanguinary niggers need is a shaking up. Will you gentlemen
please bring your rifles to dinner, and will you, Mr. Brown, kindly prepare
forty or fifty sticks of dynamite. ‘make the fuses good and short. We’ll give
them a lesson. And now, gentlemen, dinner is served.”
One thing that Bertie detested was rice and curry, so it happened that he
alone partook of an inviting omelet. He had quite finished his plate, when
Harriwell helped himself to the omelet. One mouthful he tasted, then spat out
vociferously.
“That’s the second time,” McTavish announced ominously.
Harriwell was still hawking and spitting.
“Second time, what?” Bertie quavered.
“Poison,” was the answer. “That cook will be hanged yet.”
“That’s the way the bookkeeper went out at Cape March,” Brown spoke up. “Died
horribly. They said on the Jessie that they heard him screaming three miles
away.”
“I’ll put the cook in irons,” sputtered Harriwell. “Fortunately we discovered
it in time.”
Bertie sat paralyzed. There was no color in his face. He attempted to speak,
but only an inarticulate gurgle resulted. All eyed him anxiously.
“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” McTavish cried in a tense voice.
“Yes, I ate it, plenty of it, a whole plateful!” Bertie cried explosively,
like a diver suddenly regaining breath.
The awful silence continued half a minute longer, and he read his fate in
their eyes.
“Maybe it wasn’t poison after all,” said Harriwell, dismally.
“Call in the cook,” said Brown.
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In came the cook, a grinning black boy, nose-spiked and ear-plugged.
“Here, you, Wi-wi, what name that?” Harriwell bellowed, pointing accusingly at
the omelet.
Wi-wi was very naturally frightened and embarrassed.
“Him good fella kai-kai,” he murmured apologetically.
“Make him eat it,” suggested McTavish. “That’s a proper test.”
Harriwell filled a spoon with the stuff and jumped for the cook, who fled in
panic.
“That settles it,” was Brown’s solemn pronouncement. “He won’t eat it.”
“Mr. Brown, will you please go and put the irons on him?” Harriwell turned
cheerfully to Bertie. “It’s all right, old man, the Commissioner will deal
with him, and if you die, depend upon it, he will be hanged.”
“Don’t think the government’ll do it,” objected McTavish.
“But gentlemen, gentlemen,” Bertie cried. “In the meantime think of me.”
Harriwell shrugged his shoulders pityingly.
“Sorry, old man, but it’s a native poison, and there are no known antidotes
for native poisons. Try and compose yourself and if–”
Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse, and
Brown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table.
“The cook’s dead,” he said. “Fever. A rather sudden attack.”
“I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for native
poisons–”
“Except gin,” said Brown.
Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin bottle.
“Neat, man, neat,” he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler two-thirds full
of the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the angry bite of it till the
tears ran down his cheeks.
Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out for him,
and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and McTavish also
doubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their voices. His appetite
had left him, and he took his own pulse stealthily under the table. There was
no question but what it was increasing, but he failed to ascribe it to the gin
he had taken. ‘mcTavish, rifle in hand, went out on the veranda to
reconnoiter.
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“They’re massing up at the cook-house,” was his report. “And they’ve no end of
Sniders. ‘my idea is to sneak around on the other side and take them in flank.
Strike the first blow, you know. Will you come along, Brown?”
Harriwell ate on steadily, while Bertie discovered that his pulse had leaped
up five beats. Nevertheless, he could not help jumping when the rifles began
to go off. Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard the pumping of
Brown’s and McTavish’s Winchesters–all against a background of demoniacal
screeching and yelling.
“They’ve got them on the run,” Harriwell remarked, as voices and gunshots
faded away in the distance.
Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latter
reconnoitered.
“They’ve got dynamite,” he said.
“Then let’s charge them with dynamite,” Harriwell proposed.
Thrusting half a dozen sticks each into their pockets and equipping themselves
with lighted cigars, they started for the door. And just then it happened.
They blamed McTavish for it afterward, and he admitted that the charge had
been a trifle excessive. But at any rate it went off under the house, which
lifted up cornerwise and settled back on its foundations. Half the china on
the table was shattered, while the eight-day clock stopped. Yelling for
vengeance, the three men rushed out into the night, and the bombardment began.
When they returned, there was no Bertie. He had dragged himself away to the
office, barricaded himself in, and sunk upon the floor in a gin-soaked
nightmare, wherein he died a thousand deaths while the valorous fight went on
around him. In the morning, sick and headachey from the gin, he crawled out to
find the sun still in the sky and God presumable in heaven, for his hosts were
alive and uninjured.
Harriwell pressed him to stay on longer, but Bertie insisted on sailing
immediately on the Arla for Tulagi, where, until the following steamer day, he
stuck close by the Commissioner’s house. There were lady tourists on the
outgoing steamer, and Bertie was again a hero, while Captain Malu, as usual,
passed unnoticed. But Captain Malu sent back from Sydney two cases of the best
Scotch whiskey on the market, for he was not able to make up his mind as to
whether it was Captain Hansen or Mr Harriwell who had given Bertie Arkwright
the more gorgeous insight into life in the Solomons.
THE INEVITABLE WHITE MAN
“The black will never understand the white, nor the white the black, as long
as black is black and white is white.”
So said Captain Woodward. We sat in the parlor of Charley Roberts’ pub in
Apia, drinking long Abu Hameds compounded and shared with us by the aforesaid
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Charley Roberts, who claimed the recipe direct from Stevens, famous for having
invented the Abu Hamed at a time when he was spurred on by Nile thirst–the
Stevens who was responsible for “With Kitchener to Kartoun,” and who passed