Yes; in that lonely Pacific island, among that motley crowd of floating nondescripts, were specimens of the ancient coracle of our own islands, constructed in exactly the same way; that is, of wicker-work, covered with some waterproof substance, whether skin or tarpaulin.  But the ingenious Kanaka, not content with his coracles, had gone one better, and copied them in dugouts of solid timber.  The resultant vessel was a sort of cross between a butcher’s tray and a wash-basin—­

“A thing beyond
Conception:  such a wretched wherry,
Perhaps ne’er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.”

The proud possessors of the coracles, both wicker and wood, must have been poor indeed, for they did not even own a paddle, propelling their basins through the water with their hands.  It may be imagined what a pace they put on!  At a little distance they were very puzzling, looking more like a water-beetle grown fat and lazy than aught else.

And so, in everything floatable, the whole male population of that part of the coast came to visit us.  We were speedily the centre of a great crowd of canoes, some of which were continually capsizing and spilling their occupants, who took no more notice of such incidents than one would of a sneeze.  Underneath a canoe, or on top, made but little difference to these amphibious creatures.  They brought nothing with them to trade; in fact, few of their vessels were capable of carrying anything that could not swim and take care of itself.  As they came on board, each crossed himself more or less devoutly, revealing the teaching of a Roman Catholic mission; and as they called to one another, it was not hard to recognize, even in their native garb, such names as Erreneo (Irenaeus), Al’seo (Aloysius), and other favourite cognomens of saints.

A laughing chattering good-tempered crowd they were—­just like a bevy of children breaking up, and apparently destitute of the slightest sense of responsibility.  They spoke a totally different dialect, or maybe language, to that of Vau Vau, for it was only an isolated word here and there that Samuela could make out.  But presently, going forward through the crowd that thronged every part of the deck, I saw a man leaning nonchalantly against the rail by the fore-rigging, who struck me at once as being an American negro.  The most casual observer would not have mistaken him for a Kanaka of those latitudes, though he might have passed as a Papuan.  He was dressed in all the dignity of a woollen shirt, with a piece of fine “tapa” for a waistcloth, feet and legs bare.  Around his neck was a necklace composed of a number of strings of blue and white beads plaited up neatly, and carrying as a pendant a George shilling.  Going up to him, I looked at the coin, and said, “Belitani money?” “Oh yes,” he said, “that’s a shilling of old Georgey Fourf,” in perfectly good English, but with an accent which quite confirmed my first idea.  I at once invited him aft to see the skipper, who was very anxious to find an interpreter among the noisy crowd, besides being somewhat uneasy at having so large a number on board.