“And he grew.  You could almost see him grow.  And as I was never much of a society man his quiet, friendly ways suited me to a T. For nearly two years we were as happy as we could be on that island.  I had no business worries, for I knew my salary was mounting up at Dawsons’.  We would see a sail now and then, but nothing ever came near us.  I amused myself, too, by decorating the island with designs worked in sea-urchins and fancy shells of various kinds.  I put AEPYORNIS ISLAND all round the place very nearly, in big letters, like what you see done with coloured stones at railway stations in the old country, and mathematical calculations and drawings of various sorts.  And I used to lie watching the blessed bird stalking round and growing, growing; and think how I could make a living out of him by showing him about if I ever got taken off.  After his first moult he began to get handsome, with a crest and a blue wattle, and a lot of green feathers at the behind of him.  And then I used to puzzle whether Dawsons had any right to claim him or not.  Stormy weather and in the rainy season we lay snug under the shelter I had made out of the old canoe, and I used to tell him lies about my friends at home.  And after a storm we would go round the island together to see if there was any drift.  It was a kind of idyll, you might say.  If only I had had some tobacco it would have been simply just like Heaven.

“It was about the end of the second year our little paradise went wrong.  Friday was then about fourteen feet high to the bill of him, with a big, broad head like the end of a pickaxe, and two huge brown eyes with yellow rims, set together like a man’s—­not out of sight of each other like a hen’s.  His plumage was fine—­none of the half-mourning style of your ostrich—­more like a cassowary as far as colour and texture go.  And then it was he began to cock his comb at me and give himself airs, and show signs of a nasty temper....

“At last came a time when my fishing had been rather unlucky, and he began to hang about me in a queer, meditative way.  I thought he might have been eating sea-cucumbers or something, but it was really just discontent on his part.  I was hungry too, and when at last I landed a fish I wanted it for myself.  Tempers were short that morning on both sides.  He pecked at it and grabbed it, and I gave him a whack on the head to make him leave go.  And at that he went for me.  Lord!...

“He gave me this in the face.”  The man indicated his scar.  “Then he kicked me.  It was like a cart-horse.  I got up, and seeing he hadn’t finished, I started off full tilt with my arms doubled up over my face.  But he ran on those gawky legs of his faster than a racehorse, and kept landing out at me with sledge hammer kicks, and bringing his pickaxe down on the back of my head.  I made for the lagoon, and went in up to my neck.  He stopped at the water, for he hated getting his feet wet, and began to make a shindy, something like a peacock’s, only hoarser.  He started strutting up and down the beach.  I’ll admit I felt small to see this blessed fossil lording it there.  And my head and face were all bleeding, and—­well, my body just one jelly of bruises.