Returning to the islets we were just in time to escape two fierce squalls, which lasted half an hour and raised such a sea that the remaining canoes began to follow us, as they were unable to keep on the ground.  During our absence the women and children had been most industrious; the weather-worn, dilapidated huts had been made habitable with freshly-plaited kapaus—­coarse mats of green coconut leaves, the floors covered with clean white pebbles, sleeping mats in readiness, and heaps of young drinking nuts piled up in every corner, whilst outside smoke was arising from a score of ground ovens in which taro and puraka were being cooked, together with bundles of atuli wrapped in leaves.

Etiquette forbade Mareko and myself counting our fish until the rest of the party returned, although the women had taken them out of the canoe and laid them on the beach, where the pouring rain soon washed them clean and showed them in all their shining beauty.  Among them were two or three parrot-fish—­rich carmine, striped with bands of bright yellow, boneless fins, and long protruding teeth in the upper jaw showing out from the thick, fleshy lips; and one afulu—­a species of deep-water sand mullet with purple scales and yellow fins.

Whilst awaiting the rest of the canoes I drew the teacher into our hut and pressed him to take some whisky.  He was wet, cold, and shivering, but resolutely declined to take any.  “I should like to drink a little,” he said frankly, “but I must not.  I cannot drink it in secret, and yet I must not set a bad example.  Do not ask me, please.  But if you like to give some to the old men do so, but only a very little.”  I did do so.  As soon as the rest of the party landed I called up four of the oldest men and gave each of them a stiff nip.  They were all nude to the waist, and like all Polynesians who have been exposed to a cold rain squall, were shivering and miserable.  After each man had taken his nip and emitted a deep sigh of satisfaction I observed that hundreds of old white men saved their lives by taking a glass of spirits when they were wet through—­they had to do so by the doctor’s orders.

“That is true,” said one old fellow; “when men grow old, and the rain falls upon them it does not run off their skins as it would from the smooth skins of young men.  It gets into the wrinkles and stays there.  But when the belly is warmed with grog a man does not feel the cold.”

“True,” I said gravely, as I poured some whisky out for myself; “true, quite true, my dear friends.  And in these islands it is very bad for an old man to be exposed to much rain.  That is why I am disturbed in my mind.  See, there is Mareko, your minister.  He, like you, is old; he is wet and cold.  And he shivers.  And he will not take a mouthful of this rom because he fears scandal.  Now if he should become ill and die I should be a disgraced man.  This rom is now not rom; it is medicine.  And Mareko should take some even as you have taken it—­to keep away danger.”