He giggled flabbily, and sat down in a steamer chair.  The blood had ebbed from his face, exposing dark circles under his eyes.  His hands were trembling and unable to guide the shaking cigarette to his lips.  The world was too much with him, and he saw himself with dripping brains prone upon the deck.

“Really,” he said, “. . . really.”

“It’s a pretty weapon,” said Captain Malu, returning the automatic to him.

The Commissioner was on board the Makembo, returning from Sydney, and by his permission a stop was made at Ugi to land a missionary.  And at Ugi lay the ketch Arla, Captain Hansen, skipper.  Now the Arla was one of many vessels owned by Captain Malu, and it was at his suggestion and by his invitation that Bertie went aboard the Arla as guest for a four-days’ recruiting cruise on the coast of Malaita.  Thereafter the Arla would drop him at Reminge Plantation (also owned by Captain Malu), where Bertie could remain for a week, and then be sent over to Tulgal, the seat of government, where he would become the Commissioner’s guest.  Captain Malu was responsible for two other suggestions, which given, he disappears from this narrative.  One was to Captain Hansen, the other to Mr. Harriwell, manager of Reminge Plantation.  Both suggestions were similar in tenor, namely, to give Mr. Bertram Arkwright an insight into the rawness and redness of life in the Solomons.  Also, it is whispered that Captain Malu mentioned that a case of Scotch would be coincidental with any particularly gorgeous insight Mr. Arkwright might receive.

* * * * * *

“Yes, Svartz always was too pig-headed.  You see, he took four of his boat’s crew to Tulagi to be flogged—­officially, you know—­then started back with them in the whale-boat.  It was pretty squally, and the boat capsized just outside.  Swartz was the only one drowned.  Of course it was an accident.”

“Was it?  Really?” Bertie asked, only half-interested, staring hard at the black man at the wheel.

Ugi had dropped astern, and the Arla was sliding along through a summer sea toward the wooded ranges of Malaita.  The helmsman who so attracted Bertie’s eyes sported a tenpenny nail, stuck skewerwise through his nose.  About his neck was string of pants buttons.  Thrust through holes in his ears were a can-opener, the broken handle of a tooth-brush, a clay pipe, the brass wheel of an alarm clock, and several Winchester rifle cartridges.  On his chest, suspended from around his neck hung the half of a china plate.  Some forty similarly apparelled blacks lay about the deck, fifteen of which were boat’s crew, the remainder being fresh labor recruits.

“Of course it was an accident,” spoke up the Arla’s mate, Jacobs, a slender, dark-eyed man who looked more a professor than a sailor.  “Johnny Bedlip nearly had the same kind of accident.  He was bringing back several from a flogging, when they capsized him.  But he knew how to swim as well as they, and two of them were drowned.  He used a boat-stretcher and a revolver.  Of course it was an accident.”