Wilfrid Baillon, a cow-boy from British Columbia, was standing near me with his arms folded on his breast and a look of stern determination on his sunburned face.

“We must look sharp,” he said to me.  “We may all have to stand together, we whites, against these French frog-eaters.”

The tension was extreme.  The warrants had not come from the British consul, and there seemed no disposition on the Noa-Noa to save the face of la belle republique, for the blackened and blackguardly stokers still dangled their legs over the rail and made motions which caused the officials to shudder and the ladies to shut their eyes.

The agent of the vessel in Papeete, an American, appeared.  He talked long and earnestly with the secretary-general and the first and second, and to lend even a darker color to the scene, the procureur-general, the Martinique black, tall, protuberant, mopping his bald head, took the center of the conclave.  Noses were lowered and brought together, feet were stamped, hands were wiggled behind backs, and right along the American, the agent, talked and talked.

They demurred, they spat on the boards, they lifted their hands aloft—­and then they ordered the pilot to return to the Noa-Noa, and that vessel, whistling long and relievedly, pointed her nose toward the opening in the reef.

Mon Dieu! the suspense was over.  The people melted toward their homes and the restaurants, for it was nearly seven o’clock.  I drifted into the knot about the officials.

“It is in the archives,” said the secretary-general.  “It will go down in history.  That is enough.”

The delightful M. Lontane, in khaki riding breeches,—­he, as all police, ride bicycles—­his khaki helmet tipped rakishly over his cigarette, blew a ringlet.

“C’est comme ca.  We would not press our victory,” he said gallantly.  “We French are generous.  We have hearts.”

The secretary-general, the procureur-general, the first in command and the private secretary, sighted the carriage of the governor, who had not appeared until the Noa-Noa was out of the lagoon, and they went to tell him of the great affair.

The agent of the line, grim and unsmiling, climbed to the wide veranda of the Cercle Bougainville, and ordered a Scotch and siphon.

“There she goes,” he said to me, and pointed to the steamer streaking through the reef gate.  “There she goes, and I’m bloody well satisfied.”

At tea the next afternoon the British consul cast a new light on the international incident.  He was playing bridge with the governor and others when the demand for the warrants was brought.

“The blighters interrupted our rubber,” said the consul, “and the governor was exceedingly put out.  I told them the Noa-Noa couldn’t proceed without the stokers, and as it carries the French mail, they patched it up to arrest them when they return.  We quite lost track of the game for a few minutes.”