“Yes, I have been in some near things,” he went on, when the trunk of his cigar was fairly ignited.  “Do you see these two front teeth?”

The beach-comber opened wide a cavernous mouth.  The late Mr. Macadam, who invented the system of making roads called by his name, allowed no stone to be laid on the way which the stone-breaker could not put in his mouth.  The beach-comber could almost have inserted a milestone.

I did not see “these two front teeth,” because, like the Spanish Fleet, they were not in sight.  But I understood my friend to be drawing my attention to their absence.

“I see the place where they have been,” I answered.

“Well, that was a near go,” said the beach-comber.  “I was running for my life before a pack of screeching naked beggars in the Admiralty Islands.  I had emptied my revolver, and my cartridges, Government ones, were all in a parcel—­a confounded Government parcel—­fastened with a strong brass wire.  Where’s the good of giving you cartridges, which you need in a hurry if you need them at all, in a case you can’t open without a special instrument?  Well, as I ran, and the spears whizzed round me, I tore at the wire with my teeth.  It gave at last, or my head would now be decorating a stake outside the chief’s pah.  But my teeth gave when the brass cord gave, and I’ll never lift a heavy table with them again.”

“But you got out the cartridges?”

“Oh yes.  I shot two of the beggars, and ‘purwailed on them to stop,’ and then I came within sight of the boats, and Thompson shouted, and the others bolted.  What a voice that fellow had!  It reminded me of that Greek chap I read about at school; he went and faced the Trojans with nothing in his hand, and they hooked it when they only heard him roar.  Poor Thompson! “and the beach-comber drank, in silence, to the illustrious dead.

“Who shot him?”

“A scientific kind of poop, a botanizing shaloot that was travelling around with a tin box on his back, collecting beetles and bird-skins.  Poor Thompson! this was how it happened.  He was the strongest fellow I ever saw; he could tear a whole pack of cards across with his hands.  That man was all muscle.  He and I had paddled this botanizing creature across to an island where some marooned fellow had built a hut, and we kept a little whisky in a bunk, and used the place sometimes for shooting or fishing.  It was latish one night, the botanist had not come home, I fell asleep, and left Thompson with the whisky.  I was awakened by hearing a shot, and there lay Thompson, stone-dead, a bullet in his forehead, and the naturalist with a smoking revolver in his hand, and trembling like an aspen leaf.  It seems he had lost his way, and by the time he got home, Thompson was mad drunk, and came for him with his fists.  If once he hit you, just in play, it was death, and the stranger knew that.  Thompson had him in a corner, and I am bound to say that shooting was his only chance.  Poor old Thompson!”