And this tribe, territory, and stronghold, at the latter end of time, Bashti had inherited, and he had bettered his inheritance.  Nor was he above continuing to better it.  For a long time he had reasoned closely and carefully in maturing the plan that itched in his brain for fulfilment.  Three years before, the tribe of Ano Ano, miles down the coast, had captured a recruiter, destroyed her and all hands, and gained a fabulous store of tobacco, calico, beads, and all manner of trade goods, rifles and ammunition.

Little enough had happened in the way of price that was paid.  Half a year after, a war vessel had poked her nose into the lagoon, shelled Ano Ano, and sent its inhabitants scurrying into the bush.  The landing-party that followed had futilely pursued along the jungle runways.  In the end it had contented itself with killing forty fat pigs and chopping down a hundred coconut trees.  Scarcely had the war vessel passed out to open sea, when the people of Ano Ano were back from the bush to the village.  Shell fire on flimsy grass houses is not especially destructive.  A few hours’ labour of the women put that little matter right.  As for the forty dead pigs, the entire tribe fell upon the carcasses, roasted them under the ground with hot stones, and feasted.  The tender tips of the fallen palms were likewise eaten, while the thousands of coconuts were husked and split and sun-dried and smoke-cured into copra to be sold to the next passing trader.

Thus, the penalty exacted had proved a picnic and a feast—­all of which appealed to the thrifty, calculating brain of Bashti.  And what was good for Ano Ano, in his judgment was surely good for Somo.  Since such were white men’s ways who sailed under the British flag and killed pigs and cut down coconuts in cancellation of blood-debts and headtakings, Bashti saw no valid reason why he should not profit as Ano Ano had profited.  The price to be paid at some possible future time was absurdly disproportionate to the immediate wealth to be gained.  Besides, it had been over two years since the last British war vessel had appeared in the Solomons.

And thus, Bashti, with a fine fresh idea inside his head, bowed his chief’s head in consent that his people could flock aboard and trade.  Very few of them knew what his idea was or that he even had an idea.

Trade grew still brisker as more canoes came alongside and black men and women thronged the deck.  Then came the recruits, new-caught, young, savage things, timid as deer, yet yielding to stern parental and tribal law and going down into the Arangi’s cabin, one by one, their fathers and mothers and relatives accompanying them in family groups, to confront the big fella white marster, who wrote their names down in a mysterious book, had them ratify the three years’ contract of their labour by a touch of the right hand to the pen with which he wrote, and who paid the first year’s advance in trade goods to the heads of their respective families.