Anything but a beauty—­had been his appraisal when he halted the procession for a pow-wow.  Lean from sickness, her skin mangy with the dry scales of the disease called bukua, she was tied hand and foot and, like a pig, slung from a stout pole that rested on the shoulders of the bearers, who intended to dine off of her.  Too hopeless to expect mercy, she made no appeal for help, though the horrible fear that possessed her was eloquent in her wild-staring eyes.

In the universal beche-de-mer English, Captain Van Horn had learned that she was not regarded with relish by her companions, and that they were on their way to stake her out up to her neck in the running water of the Balebuli.  But first, before they staked her, their plan was to dislocate her joints and break the big bones of the arms and legs.  This was no religious rite, no placation of the brutish jungle gods.  Merely was it a matter of gastronomy.  Living meat, so treated, was made tender and tasty, and, as her companions pointed out, she certainly needed to be put through such a process.  Two days in the water, they told the captain, ought to do the business.  Then they would kill her, build the fire, and invite in a few friends.

After half an hour of bargaining, during which Captain Van Horn had insisted on the worthlessness of the parcel, he had bought a fat pig worth five dollars and exchanged it for her.  Thus, since he had paid for the pig in trade goods, and since trade goods were rated at a hundred per cent. profit, the girl had actually cost him two dollars and fifty cents.

And then Captain Van Horn’s troubles had begun.  He could not get rid of the girl.  Too well he knew the natives of Malaita to turn her over to them anywhere on the island.  Chief Ishikola of Su’u had offered five twenties of drinking coconuts for her, and Bau, a bush chief, had offered two chickens on the beach at Malu.  But this last offer had been accompanied by a sneer, and had tokened the old rascal’s scorn of the girl’s scrawniness.  Failing to connect with the missionary brig, the Western Cross, on which she would not have been eaten, Captain Van Horn had been compelled to keep her in the cramped quarters of the Arangi against a problematical future time when he would be able to turn her over to the missionaries.

But toward him the girl had no heart of gratitude because she had no brain of understanding.  She, who had been sold for a fat pig, considered her pitiful role in the world to be unchanged.  Eatee she had been.  Eatee she remained.  Her destination merely had been changed, and this big fella white marster of the Arangi would undoubtedly be her destination when she had sufficiently fattened.  His designs on her had been transparent from the first, when he had tried to feed her up.  And she had outwitted him by resolutely eating no more than would barely keep her alive.