The inhabitants of the country districts vociferated in one voice: 

“Uahani!  Uahani!”

“Faufau!  Faufau!” cried the gods.

“Foul!  Foul!  ’E ‘it’ im, ‘hand’ e’s hon ’is ’ands hand kneeses,” exclaimed the Australian woman.

The audience took up the chorus in French, Tahitian, and English.  Though Opeta had won them all by his ability and fairness and was plainly the better man, the sentiment was for the rules.  The Christchurch Kid thought a moment, and conferred with the announcer, who talked with all the seconds.  The spectators were insistent, and though loath to end the show, the Kid held up the gloved hand of the Mataiean.

The announcer declared him the “champignon” of Papeete, but naively declared that Opeta was still full of fight, and challenged the universe.  The Raratonga man was dumfounded at the result of his forgetfulness, and gazed coldly and accusingly at the red plaits.  The people, too, now regretted their enthusiasm for the right, which had shortened their program of rounds, and demanded that the battle go on.  But the band had left, the lights were dimmed, and gradually the crowd departed.

The Australian waited to shake the hand of her knight, to whom she said: 

“I bloomin’ well knew you ’d do ’im hup!  ‘E’s got nothin’ hin ’is right.  ’E’s a runaw’y, ’e is.”

David and I went into the buffet of the cinema after the fight to hear the arguments over it, and he to collect bets.  He had chosen the winner by the toss of a coin.  The French Governor of the Paumotus was there, gaily bantering half a dozen girls for whom he bought drinks.  We joined him with Miri and Caroline and Maraa and others, the best-known sirens of Papeete.  They were handsome, though savage-looking, and they had lost their soft voices.  Alcohol and a thousand upaupahuras had made them shrill.  They smoked endless cigarettes.  Some wore shoes and stockings, and some were barefooted.  Their dresses were red or blue, with insertions of lace and ribbons, and they were crowned with flowers in token of their mood of gaiety.

David insisted on a bowl of velvet, three quarts of champagne, and three of English porter mixed in a great urn.  The champagne bubbled in the heavier porter, and the brew was a dark, brilliant color, soft and smooth.  It was delicious, and seemed as safe as cocoanut milk.  I drank my share of it in the cinema cafe, and after that was conscious only vaguely of going to the Cocoanut House garden, where Miri and Caroline and Maraa danced nude under the trees by the light of the full moon.