I was the cause of the interruption.  I lifted myself into a sitting position, and the movement disturbed the heap of shell.  Part of the pile rattled down upon the planks of the wharf, and the Maori and his pupil stopped singing and stared at me as if they were much surprised at finding any one within hearing distance.  The wharf had appeared deserted, and I gave them a start by crawling from underneath the awning I had made from the copra bag.  The Maori wore a dirty khaki coat, with a pair of trousers reaching to his knees, while the Fijian, instead of being short-rigged in shirt and sulu, sported a full suit of duck.  “Good afternoon, boss,” said the Maori, trying to wipe the look of surprise from his face with a grin.  “Mighty hot afternoon, isn’t it, boss?”

“It is,” I answered.  “If I knew where that white waterfall is I’d go and stand under it for a few minutes.”

The small Fijian gave a little gurgle of surprise and looked up at his big teacher, who regarded me with eyes of wonder.

“What white waterfall, boss?” he asked blandly.

“The one you were singing about,” I cried.

The Maori smiled sweetly.  “We weren’t singing about a white waterfall, boss,” he spluttered.  “I just guess you were asleep an’ dreamed something.”

That didn’t improve my temper.  I had an edge on the fellow on account of the high-powered voice he owned, so when he suggested that I had been dreaming, I climbed to my feet so that I could make my words more impressive when I started to tell him my opinion of his bluff.

The action startled the Fijian.  He had an idea that I was going to use the piece of kauri pine upon his head, so he gave a yell and started full speed up the wharf toward the town.  The Maori stood his ground for a minute, then he made a face to express his contempt for me and bolted after his mate.  I stared at his bare legs walloping the planks, and feeling certain that I had lost all chance of finding out where the white waterfall and Black Fernando’s hell were situated, I found a new shadow patch and lay down again.

I fell asleep and dreamed that I was chasing those two islanders in an endeavour to find out the meaning of their mysterious chant, but just as I had overtaken the pair, some one gripped my arm and shook me gently.

When I opened my eyes I looked up into the face of a good-looking young fellow of about two and twenty years, who was smiling broadly as if he thought it a great joke to wake a man out of a sound sleep on a hot afternoon.

“Are you Jack Verslun?” he asked.

I nodded.  It was too warm to use words recklessly.

“Pierre the Rat sent me after you,” he continued.

“Why?” I asked.

“I have a berth for you,” he answered.  “I’m from The Waif.  The mate died on the run down from Sydney, and Captain Newmarch sent me ashore to hunt up some one for his perch.  Do you want it?”