They buried Case upon the field of glory, right in the hole where he had kept the smoking head.  I waited till the thing was done; and Mr. Tarleton prayed, which I thought tomfoolery, but I’m bound to say he gave a pretty sick view of the dear departed’s prospects, and seemed to have his own ideas of hell.  I had it out with him afterwards, told him he had scamped his duty, and what he had ought to have done was to up like a man and tell the Kanakas plainly Case was damned, and a good riddance; but I never could get him to see it my way.  Then they made me a litter of poles and carried me down to the station.  Mr. Tarleton set my leg, and made a regular missionary splice of it, so that I limp to this day.  That done, he took down my evidence, and Uma’s, and Maea’s, wrote it all out fine, and had us sign it; and then he got the chiefs and marched over to Papa Randall’s to seize Case’s papers.

All they found was a bit of a diary, kept for a good many years, and all about the price of copra, and chickens being stolen, and that; and the books of the business and the will I told you of in the beginning, by both of which the whole thing (stock, lock, and barrel) appeared to belong to the Samoa woman.  It was I that bought her out at a mighty reasonable figure, for she was in a hurry to get home.  As for Randall and the black, they had to tramp; got into some kind of a station on the Papa-malulu side; did very bad business, for the truth is neither of the pair was fit for it, and lived mostly on fish, which was the means of Randall’s death.  It seems there was a nice shoal in one day, and papa went after them with the dynamite; either the match burned too fast, or papa was full, or both, but the shell went off (in the usual way) before he threw it, and where was papa’s hand?  Well, there’s nothing to hurt in that; the islands up north are all full of one-handed men, like the parties in the “Arabian Nights”; but either Randall was too old, or he drank too much, and the short and the long of it was that he died.  Pretty soon after, the nigger was turned out of the island for stealing from white men, and went off to the west, where he found men of his own colour, in case he liked that, and the men of his own colour took and ate him at some kind of a corroborree, and I’m sure I hope he was to their fancy!

So there was I, left alone in my glory at Falesa; and when the schooner came round I filled her up, and gave her a deck-cargo half as high as the house.  I must say Mr. Tarleton did the right thing by us; but he took a meanish kind of a revenge.

“Now, Mr. Wiltshire,” said he, “I’ve put you all square with everybody here.  It wasn’t difficult to do, Case being gone; but I have done it, and given my pledge besides that you will deal fairly with the natives.  I must ask you to keep my word.”

Well, so I did.  I used to be bothered about my balances, but I reasoned it out this way:  We all have queerish balances; and the natives all know it, and water their copra in a proportion so that it’s fair all round; but the truth is, it did use to bother me, and, though I did well in Falesa, I was half glad when the firm moved me on to another station, where I was under no kind of a pledge and could look my balances in the face.