grotesque shapes, and, along the shores, hollowed out into caverns of all sizes, some large enough to shelter an army.  He was quite familiar with the natives, understanding enough of their queer lingo to get along.  By his friendly aid we got some food—­ yams, and fish cooked in native fashion, i.e. in heated holes in the ground, for which the friendly Kanakas would take no payment, although they looked murderous enough to be cannibals.  It does not do to go by looks always.

Well, after a long ramble, the Scotchman and I laid our weary bodies down in the shade of a big rock, and had a grand sleep, waking up again a little before sunset.  We hastened down to the beach off the town, where all my watchmates were sitting in a row, like lost sheep, waiting to be taken on board again.  They had had enough of liberty; indeed, such liberty as that was hardly worth having.  It seems hardly credible, but we were actually glad to get on board again, it was so miserable ashore, The natives were most unsociable at the port, and we could not make ourselves understood, so there was not much fun to be had.  Even those who were inclined to drink had too little for a spree, which I was not sorry for, since doubtless a very unpleasant reception would have awaited them had they come on board drunk.

Next day the starboard watch west on liberty, while we who had received our share were told off to spend the day wooding and watering.  In this most pleasant of occupations (when the weather is fine) I passed a much more satisfactory time than when wandering about with no objective, an empty pocket, and a hungry belly.  No foremast hand has ever enjoyed his opportunities of making the acquaintance of his various visiting places more than I have; but the circumstances attendant upon one’s leave must be a little favourable, or I would much rather stay aboard and fish.  Our task was over for the day, a goodly store of wood and casks of water having been shipped.  We were sitting down to supper, when, in answer to a hail from the beach, we were ordered to fetch the liberty men.  When we got to them, there was a pretty how-d’ye-do.  All of them were more or less drunk, some exceedingly quarrelsome.  Now, Mistah Jones was steering our boat, looking as little like a man to take sauce from a drunken sailor as you could imagine.  Most of the transformed crowd ya-hooing on the beach had felt the weight of his shoulder-of-mutton fist, yet so utterly had prudence forsaken them that, before we came near them, they were abusing him through all the varied gamut of filthy language they possessed.  My democratic sentiments are deeply seated, but I do believe in authority, and respect for it being rigidly enforced, so this uncalled-for scene upset me, making me feel anxious that the gibbering fools might get a lesson.  They got one.