Bertie turned to meet one McTavish, the storekeeper, who scarcely acknowledged the introduction, such was his eagerness to present his resignation.

“It being that I’m a married man, Mr. Harriwell, I can’t very well afford to remain on longer.  Trouble is working up, as plain as the nose on your face.  The niggers are going to break out, and there’ll be another Hohono horror here.”

“What’s a Hohono horror?” Bertie asked, after the storekeeper had been persuaded to remain until the end of the month.

“Oh, he means Hohono Plantation, on Ysabel,” said the manager.  “The niggers killed the five white men ashore, captured the schooner, killed the captain and mate, and escaped in a body to Malaita.  But I always said they were careless on Hohono.  They won’t catch us napping here.  Come along, Mr. Arkwright, and see our view from the veranda.”

Bertie was too busy wondering how he could get away to Tulagi to the Commissioner’s house, to see much of the view.  He was still wondering, when a rifle exploded very near to him behind his back.  At the same moment his arm was nearly dislocated, so eagerly did Mr. Harriwell drag him indoors.

“I say, old man, that was a close shave,” said the manager, pawing him over to see if he had been hit.  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.  But it was broad daylight, and I never dreamed.”

Bertie was beginning to turn pale.

“They got the other manager that way,” McTavish vouchsafed.  “And a dashed fine chap he was.  Blew his brains out all over the veranda.  You noticed that dark stain there between the steps and the door?”

Bertie was ripe for the cocktail which Mr. Harriwell pitched in and compounded for him; but before he could drink it, a man in riding trousers and puttees entered.

“What’s the matter now?” the manager asked, after one look at the newcomer’s face.  “Is the river up again?”

“River be blowed—­it’s the niggers.  Stepped out of the cane-grass not a dozen feet away, and whopped at me.  It was a Snider, and he shot from the hip.  Now what I want to know is where’d he get the Snider?  Oh, I beg your pardon.  Glad to know you, Mr. Arkwright.”

“Mr. Brown is my assistant,” explained Mr. Harriwell.  “And now let’s have that drink.”

“But where’d he get that Snider?” Mr. Brown insisted.  “I always objected to keeping those guns on the premises?”

“They’re still there,” Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat.

Mr. Brown smiled incredulously.

“Come along and see,” said the manager.

Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed triumphantly at a big packing-case in a dusty corner.

“Well, then, where did the beggar get that Snider?” harped Mr. Brown.

But just then McTavish lifted the packing-case.  The manager started then tore off the lid.  The case was empty.  They gazed at one another in horrified silence.  Harriwell dropped wearily.