“Yes, look at the Princess and that Yankee mate,” the skipper took up the tale.  “She carried five white men besides a government agent.  The captain, the agent, and the supercargo were ashore in the two boats.  They were killed to the last man.  The mate and bosun, with about fifteen of the crew—­Samoans and Tongans—­were on board.  A crowd of niggers came off from the shore.  First thing the mate knew, the bosun and the crew were killed in the first rush.  The mate grabbed three cartridge-belts and two Winchesters and skinned up to the cross-trees.  He was the sole survivor, and you can’t blame him for being mad.  He pumped one rifle till it got so hot he couldn’t hold it, then he pumped the other.  The deck was black with niggers.  He cleaned them out.  He dropped them as they went over the rail, and he dropped them as fast as they picked up their paddles.  Then they jumped into the water and started to swim for it, and, being mad, he got half a dozen more.  And what did he get for it?”

“Seven years in Fiji,” snapped the mate.

“The government said he wasn’t justified in shooting after they’d taken to the water,” the skipper explained.

“And that’s why they die of dysentery nowadays,” the mate added.

“Just fancy,” said Bertie, as he felt a longing for the cruise to be over.

Later on in the day he interviewed the black who had been pointed out to him as a cannibal.  This fellow’s name was Sumasai.  He had spent three years on a Queensland plantation.  He had been to Samoa, and Fiji, and Sydney; and as a boat’s crew had been on recruiting schooners through New Britain, New Ireland, New Guinea, and the Admiralties.  Also, he was a wag, and he had taken a line on his skipper’s conduct.  Yes, he had eaten many men.  How many?  He could not remember the tally.  Yes, white men, too; they were very good, unless they were sick.  He had once eaten a sick one.

“My word!” he cried, at the recollection.  “Me sick plenty along him.  My belly walk about too much.”

Bertie shuddered, and asked about heads.  Yes, Sumasai had several hidden ashore, in good condition, sun-dried, and smoke-cured.  One was of the captain of a schooner.  It had long whiskers.  He would sell it for two quid.  Black men’s heads he would sell for one quid.  He had some pickaninny heads, in poor condition, that he would let go for ten bob.

Five minutes afterward, Bertie found himself sitting on the companionway-slide alongside a black with a horrible skin disease.  He sheered off, and on inquiry was told that it was leprosy.  He hurried below and washed himself with antiseptic soap.  He took many antiseptic washes in the course of the day, for every native on board was afflicted with malignant ulcers of one sort or another.

As the Arla drew in to an anchorage in the midst of mangrove swamps, a double row of barbed wire was stretched around above her rail.  That looked like business and when Bertie saw the shore canoes alongside, armed with spears, bows and arrows, and Sniders, he wished more earnestly than ever that the cruise was over.