“Sit down, you cock-a-hoopy young ass,” and “Mr. Harry” hit the supercargo a good-humoured but stiff blow in the chest.  “These people aren’t missionaries; they’re a cut above the usual breed.  Man’s a gentleman; woman’s as sweet as a rosebud.  Now look here, Otway; we give you a pretty free hand generally, but in this instance we want you to stretch a point—­you can give these people berths in the trade-room, can’t you?”

The supercargo considered a moment.  “There’s a lot returning this trip.  First, there’s the French priest for Wallis Island—­nice old buffer, but never washes, and grinds his teeth in his sleep—­he’s in the cabin next to mine; old Miss Wiedermann for Tonga—­cabin on starboard side—­fussy old cat, who is always telling me that she can distinctly hear Robertson’s bad language on deck.  But her brother is a good sort, and so I put up with her.  Then there’s Captain Burr, in the skipper’s cabin, two Samoan half-caste girls in the deck-house—­there’s going to be trouble over those women, old Bruce says, and I don’t doubt it—­and the whole lot will have their meals in the beastly dog-kennel you call a saloon, and I call a sweat-box.”

“Thank you, Mr. Otway.  Your elegant manner of speaking shows clearly the refining influence of the charming people with whom you associate.  Just let me tell you this—­you looked like a gentleman a year or two ago, but become less like one every day.”

“No wonder,” replied Otway sullenly, “the Island trade is not calculated to turn out Chesterfields.  I’m sick enough of it, now we are carrying passengers as well as cargo.  I suppose the firm will be asking us supercargoes to wear uniform and brass buttons soon, like the ticket collector on a penny ferry.”

“Quite likely, my sulky young friend—­quite likely, if it will pay us to do so.”

“Then I’ll clear out, and go nigger-catching again in the Solomons.  That’s a lot better than having to be civil to people who worry the soul out of you, are always in the way at sea, and a beastly nuisance in port.  Why, do you know what old Miss Weidermann did at Manono, in Samoa, when we were there buying yams three months ago?”

“No; what did she do?”

“Got the skipper and myself into a howling mess through her infernal interference; and if the chiefs and old Mataafa himself had not come to our help there would have been some shooting, and this firm could never have sent another ship to Manono again.  It makes me mad when I think of it—­the silly old bundle of propriety and feminine spite.”

“Tell me all about it, Otway.  ’Twill do you good, I can see, to unburden yourself of some of your bad temper.  Shut that door, and we’ll have a brandy-and-soda together.”