It is true that fever and dysentery are perpetually on the walk-about, that loathsome skin diseases abound, that the air is saturated with a poison that bites into every pore, cut, or abrasion and plants malignant ulcers, and that many strong men who escape dying there return as wrecks to their own countries.  It is also true that the natives of the Solomons are a wild lot, with a hearty appetite for human flesh and a fad for collecting human heads.  Their highest instinct of sportsmanship is to catch a man with his back turned and to smite him a cunning blow with a tomahawk that severs the spinal column at the base of the brain.  It is equally true that on some islands, such as Malaita, the profit and loss account of social intercourse is calculated in homicides.  Heads are a medium of exchange, and white heads are extremely valuable.  Very often a dozen villages make a jack-pot, which they fatten moon by moon, against the time when some brave warrior presents a white man’s head, fresh and gory, and claims the pot.

All the foregoing, is quite true, and yet there are white men who have lived in the Solomons a score of years and who feel homesick when they go away from them.  A man needs only to be careful—­and lucky—­to live a long time in the Solomons; but he must also be of the right sort.  He must have the hall-mark of the inevitable white man stamped upon his soul.  He must be inevitable.  He must have a certain grand carelessness of odds, a certain colossal self-satisfaction, and a racial egotism that convinces him that one white is better than a thousand niggers every day in the week, and that on Sunday he is able to clean out two thousand niggers.  For such are the things that have made the white man inevitable.  Oh, and one other thing—­the white man who wishes to be inevitable, must not merely despise the lesser breeds and think a lot of himself; he must also fail to be too long on imagination.  He must not understand too well the instincts, customs and mental processes of the blacks, the yellows, and the browns; for it is not in such fashion that the white race has tramped its royal road around the world.

Bertie Arkwright was not inevitable.  He was too sensitive, too finely strung, and he possessed too much imagination.  The world was too much with him.  He projected himself too quiveringly into his environment.  Therefore, the last place in the world for him to come was the Solomons.  He did not come, expecting to stay.  A five-weeks’ stop-over between steamers, he decided, would satisfy the call of the primitive he felt thrumming the strings of his being.  At least, so he told the lady tourists on the Makembo, though in different terms; and they worshipped him as a hero, for they were lady tourists and they would know only the safety of the steamer’s deck as she threaded her way through the Solomons.