“Yes,” he said, “you will find no cabbages like these in Germany.  You see them.  They are grown from seed.  It is not a month since I put the seed in the ground, and the plants are already flourishing.  They will soon be full-grown, and then I shall pickle them, and have for every day in the year a dish that will remind me as I eat it of the days of my youth in the dear Homeland.  Ach! the Homeland; it is very dear.  I love it, although I would not return to it for the world.  This is the happy land, my friend.  It is a fairland.  It is a beautiful land for copra, flowers, and cabbages.  I am content.”

He tossed off a glass of beer and lay back on the green sward, puffing at a pipe and gazing benignly up into the broad-leaved canopy that sheltered him from the midday sun.  For some time he reclined thus, dropping a word now and then to his companion, answering his questions, but always returning to the cabbages.

As they lay in this placidity and ease they were suddenly aware of a slight buzzing in the air.  Herr Schwankmacher raised himself on his elbow, and looked around for the insect that had dared to intrude into this peaceful cabbage-patch.  There was no insect in sight of such a size as to account for the deep-toned hum, which was growing louder moment by moment.

“This is strange,” he said.  “I never heard such a noise before.”

“I have heard it,” said his friend.  “I have heard it very close.  The last time was when Count Zeppelin’s airship came down in the Teutoberger Wald.  I was there.”

“So; but Count Zeppelin would not be here in Samoa.  We have no airships here.  The newspapers say that there is much activity in Europe, especially among the French and English, in this new pastime, but I dare say the greater part of what they say is lies.  But really, the noise is becoming very great; I am unable to explain it.”

Both men were now sitting erect, looking to right, to left, seawards, landwards, towards the hills.  All at once the sound ceased, a shadow was cast upon them, and before they could realize the situation a strange, uncouth object glided from behind them over the plantains, and came to rest in the centre of the cabbage-patch.

Herr Schwankmacher sprang to his feet with a nimbleness surprising in a man of his size, and rushed forward, snorting with rage and indignation.  His friend followed, neither indignant nor enraged, but very much interested in the occurrence.  His intelligent eyes gleamed behind his glasses; he had himself experienced aerial adventures.

It chanced that Rodier was the first to step out of the machine.  As the burly, bearded, white-clad figure of Herr Schwankmacher cantered heavily toward him, he lifted his cap, and with that sunny smile which had accompanied him through life, he said—­

“Monsieur, je vous fais mille excuses.  Voudriez-vou bien me dire ou l’on puisse obtenir de la petrole.”

“Sapperment!” cried the infuriated German.  “Es ist ein kriechender Franzose!”