In a room off the balcony there was a billiard-table, the cloth patched or missing in many spots, and with cues whose tips had long since succumbed to perpetual moisture.  A few old French books were on a shelf, and a naughty review or two of Paris on a dusty table.  Undoubtedly, this club had begun as a mariner’s association, and there was yet a decided flavor of the sea about it.  Indeed, all Tahiti was of the sea, and all but the mass of natives who stayed in their little homes were at times sailors, and all whites passengers on long voyages.  Everything paid tribute to the vast ocean, and all these men had an air of ships and the dangers of the waves.

Nautical almanacs, charts, and a barometer were conspicuous, and often were laid beside the social glasses for proof in hot arguments.  Occasionally an old Chinese or two, financiers, pearl-dealers, labor bosses, or merchants, drained a glass of eau de vie and smoked a cigarette there.  One sensed an atmosphere of mystery, of secret arrangements between traders, or hard endeavors for circumvention of competitors in the business of the dispersed islands of French Oceania.

A delightful incident enlivened my first visit, and gave me an acquaintance with a group of habitues, When I reached the balcony I saw a group of Frenchmen at a table who were singing at the top of their voices.  I sat down at the farthest table and ordered a Dr. Funk.

I did not look at them, for I felt de trop; but suddenly I heard them humming the air of “John Brown’s Body,” and singing fugitive words.

“Grory, grory, harreruah!” came to my ears, and later, “Wayd’ ‘un S’ut’ in le land de cottin.”

They were making fun of me I thought, and turned my head away.  It would not do to get angry with half a dozen jovial Frenchmen.

“All Coons Look alike to Me,” I recognized, though they sang but fragments of the text.

Through a corner of my eye I saw them all anxiously staring at me; then one of the merrymakers came over to me.  I had a fleeting thought of a row before he bowed low and said in English: 

“If you please, we make good time, we sing your songs, and must be happy to drink with you.”

He announced himself as M. Edmond Brault, chief clerk of the office of the secretary-general, fresh-faced, glowing and with a soul for music and for joy.  He was so smiling, so ingenuous, that to refuse him would have been rank discourtesy.  I joined the group.

“I am twenty-eight times married this day,” said M. Brault, “and my friends and I make very happy.”

The good husband was rejoicing on his wedding anniversary, and I could but accept the champagne he ordered.  “I am great satisfaction to drink you,” he said.  “My friends drink my wife and me.”

We toasted his admirable wife, we toasted the two republics; Lafayette, Rochambeau, and Chateaubriand.

“Ah, le biftek!” said M. Leboucher.