What a blow to all my hopes was the wholly unlooked-for arrival of this tipsy, irreclaimable seaman, this unawakened Bill Bludger!  I had framed an ideal of what my own behaviour, in my trying circumstances, ought to be.  Often had I read how these islanders possess a tradition that a wonderful white man, a being all sweetness and lucidity, landed in their midst, taught them the knowledge of the arts, converted them to peace and good manners, and at last mysteriously departed, promising that he would return again.  I had hopes—­such things have happened—­that the islanders might take me for this wonderful white man of their traditions, come back according to his promise.  If this delusion should occur, I would not at once undeceive them, but take advantage of the situation, and so bring them all into the Bungletonian fold.  I knew there was no time to waste.  Lutheran, French, or Church of England schemers, in schooners, might even now be approaching the island, with their erroneous and deplorable tenets.  Again, I had reckoned, if my hopes proved false, on attaining, not without dignity, the crown of the proto-martyr of my Connection.  Beyond occasional confinement in police cells, consequent on the strategic manoeuvres of the Salvation Army, none of us had ever known what it was to suffer in the cause.  If I were to be the first to testify with my blood, on this unknown soil, at least I could meet my doom with dignity.  In any case, I should be remembered, I had reckoned, in the island traditions, either as an isolated and mysterious benefactor, the child of an otherwise unknown race, or as a solitary martyr from afar.

All these vain hopes of spiritual pride were now blown to the wind by Bill Bludger’s unexpected appearance and characteristic conduct.  No delusions about a divine white stranger from afar could survive the appearance and behaviour of so compromising an acquaintance as William.  He was one white stranger too many.  There he was, still struggling, shouting, swearing, smelling of rum, and making frantic attempts to reach me and shake hands with me.

“Let bygones be bygones, Captain Hymn-book, your Reverence,” he screamed; “here’s your jolly good health and song,” and he put his horrible black bottle to his unchastened lips.  “Here we are, Captain, two Englishmen agin a lot o’ blooming Kanekas; let’s clear out their whole blessed town, and steer for Sydney.”

But, perceiving that I did not intend to recognize or carouse with him, William Bludger now changed his tone; “Yah, you lily-livered Bible-reader,” he exclaimed, “what are you going about in that toggery for:  copying Mr. Toole in Paw Claudian? You call yourself a missionary?  Jove, you’re more like a blooming play hactor in a penny gaff!  Easy, then, my hearties,” he added, seeing that the fishermen were approaching him again, with ropes in their hands.  “Avast! stow your handcuffs.”

In spite of his oaths and struggles, the inebriated mariner was firmly bound, hand and foot, and placed in the centre of the assembly.  I only wished that the natives had also gagged him, for his language, though, of course, unintelligible to them, was profane, and highly painful to me.