The second in command had been reinforced by the first in command, and now, summoned by courier, appeared the secretary-general of the Etablissements Francaises de l’Oceanie, bearded and helmeted, white-faced and nervous, throwing his arms into the air and shrieking, “Qu’ est-que ce que ca?  Is this war?  Are we human, or are these savages?”

Lovaina, in the rear of whose carriage I had taken refuge, exclaimed: 

“They say Tahiti people is savage!  Why this crazy people must be finished.  Is this business go on?”

“Non, non!” replied the secretary-general, with patriotic anger, “We French are long suffering, but c’est assez maintenant.”

He spoke to the first in command, and an order was shouted to M. Wilms, the pilot, to leave the Noa-Noa.  That official descended into his boat and returned to the quay, while the liner hovered a hundred yards away, the captain afraid to come nearer, fearful of leaving port without expert guidance, and more so that the crew might renew the combat.

The secretary-general conferred with the private secretary of the governor, the first and second in command, and several old residents.  They would apply to the British consul for warrants for the arrest of the ruffianly marksmen, they would wrench them from the rails, and sentence them to long imprisonments.

So for an hour more the steamship puffed and exhausted her steam, while the high officials paced the wharf shaking their fists at the besotted stokers, who shook theirs back.

The stores, closing at five o’clock, sent their quota of clerks to swell the mob at the quay, and the “rubberneck wagon,” alert to earn fares, took the news of the fray into the country, and hauled in scores of excited provincials, who had vague ideas that la guerre was on.  The wedding party, only six motor-cars full on the second day, all in wreaths of tuberoses and wild-cherry rind, the bride still in her point-lace veil, and the groom and all the guests cheered with the champagne they had drunk, drove under the shed from the suburbs and honked their horns, to the horror of the secretary-general and the others.

The situation was now both disciplinary and diplomatic.

“C’est tres serieux,” whispered the secretary to the governor’s private secretary, a dapper little man whose flirting had made his wife a Niobe and alarmed the husbands and fathers of many French dames et filles.

“Serious, monsieur?” said the private secretary, twisting his black wisp of a mustache, “it is more than serious now; it is no longer the French Establishments of Oceania.  It is between Great Britain and France.”

A peremptory order was given to drive every one off the quay, and though the crowd chaffed the police, the sweep of wharf was left free for the marchings and counter-marchings of the big men.

“What would be the result?  Would the entire British population of the ship resist the taking away of any of the crew?  Oh, if the paltry French administration at Paris had not removed the companies of soldiers who until recently had been the pride of Papeete!  And crown of misfortune, the gun-boat, sole guardian of French honor in these seas, was in Australia for repairs.  Eh bien, n’importe!  Every Frenchman was a soldier.  Did not Napoleon say that?  Nom de pipe!”