I could see Black Jack in the store, serving a customer.

“That looks like business, though,” said I.

“That’s the first sale we’ve made in three weeks,” said he.

“You don’t tell me?” says I.  “Three weeks?  Well, well.”

“If you don’t believe me,” he cries, a little hot, “you can go and look at the copra-house.  It’s half empty to this blessed hour.”

“I shouldn’t be much the better for that, you see,” says I.  “For all I can tell, it might have been whole empty yesterday.”

“That’s so,” says he, with a bit of a laugh.

“By-the-bye,” I said, “what sort of a party is that priest?  Seems rather a friendly sort.”

At this Case laughed right out loud.  “Ah!” says he, “I see what ails you now.  Galuchet’s been at you.” — Father galoshes was the name he went by most, but Case always gave it the French quirk, which was another reason we had for thinking him above the common.

“Yes, I have seen him,” I says.  “I made out he didn’t think much of your Captain Randall.”

“That he don’t!” says Case.  “It was the trouble about poor Adams.  The last day, when he lay dying, there was young Buncombe round.  Ever met Buncombe?”

I told him no.

“He’s a cure, is Buncombe!” laughs Case.  “Well, Buncombe took it in his head that, as there was no other clergyman about, bar Kanaka pastors, we ought to call in Father Galuchet, and have the old man administered and take the sacrament.  It was all the same to me, you may suppose; but I said I thought Adams was the fellow to consult.  He was jawing away about watered copra and a sight of foolery.  ‘Look here,’ I said, ’you’re pretty sick.  Would you like to see Galoshes?’ He sat right up on his elbow.  ‘Get the priest,’ says he, ‘get the priest; don’t let me die here like a dog!’ He spoke kind of fierce and eager, but sensible enough.  There was nothing to say against that, so we sent and asked Galuchet if he would come.  You bet he would.  He jumped in his dirty linen at the thought of it.  But we had reckoned without Papa.  He’s a hard-shell Baptist, is Papa; no Papists need apply.  And he took and locked the door.  Buncombe told him he was bigoted, and I thought he would have had a fit.  ‘Bigoted!’ he says.  ’Me bigoted?  Have I lived to hear it from a jackanapes like you?’ And he made for Buncombe, and I had to hold them apart; and there was Adams in the middle, gone luny again, and carrying on about copra like a born fool.  It was good as the play, and I was about knocked out of time with laughing, when all of a sudden Adams sat up, clapped his hands to his chest, and went into the horrors.  He died hard, did John Adams,” says Case, with a kind of a sudden sternness.

“And what became of the priest?” I asked.