There was another man on board, of whom the ladies took no notice.  He was a little shriveled wisp of a man, with a withered skin the color of mahogany.  His name on the passenger list does not matter, but his other name, Captain Malu, was a name for niggers to conjure with, and to scare naughty pickaninnies to righteousness, from New Hanover to the New Hebrides.  He had farmed savages and savagery, and from fever and hardship, the crack of Sniders and the lash of the overseers, had wrested five millions of money in the form of beche-de-mer, sandalwood, pearl-shell and turtle-shell, ivory nuts and copra, grasslands, trading stations, and plantations.  Captain Malu’s little finger, which was broken, had more inevitableness in it than Bertie Arkwright’s whole carcass.  But then, the lady tourists had nothing by which to judge save appearances, and Bertie certainly was a fine-looking man.

Bertie talked with Captain Malu in the smoking-room, confiding to him his intention of seeing life red and bleeding in the Solomons.  Captain Malu agreed that the intention was ambitious and honorable.  It was not until several days later that he became interested in Bertie, when that young adventurer insisted on showing him an automatic 44-calibre pistol.  Bertie explained the mechanism and demonstrated by slipping a loaded magazine up the hollow butt.

“It is so simple,” he said.  He shot the outer barrel back along the inner one.  “That loads it, and cocks it, you see.  And then all I have to do is pull the trigger, eight times, as fast as I can quiver my finger.  See that safety clutch.  That’s what I like about it.  It is safe.  It is positively fool-proof.”  He slipped out the magazine.  “You see how safe it is.”

As he held it in his hand, the muzzle came in line with Captain Malu’s stomach.  Captain Malu’s blue eyes looked at it unswervingly.

“Would you mind pointing it in some other direction?” he asked.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Bertie assured him.  “I withdrew the magazine.  It’s not loaded now, you know.”

“A gun is always loaded.”

“But this one isn’t.”

“Turn it away just the same.”

Captain Malu’s voice was flat and metallic and low, but his eyes never left the muzzle until the line of it was drawn past him and away from him.

“I’ll bet a fiver it isn’t loaded,” Bertie proposed warmly.

The other shook his head.

“Then I’ll show you.”

Bertie started to put the muzzle to his own temple with the evident intention of pulling the trigger.

“Just a second,” Captain Malu said quietly, reaching out his hand.  “Let me look at it.”

He pointed it seaward and pulled the trigger.  A heavy explosion followed, instantaneous with the sharp click of the mechanism that flipped a hot and smoking cartridge sidewise along the deck.  Bertie’s jaw dropped in amazement.

“I slipped the barrel back once, didn’t I?” he explained.  “It was silly of me, I must say.”