As soon as the leaves caught, the sorcerer leaped like a deer out of the circle, and began to race along the beach like a hound that has been bathing.  As he ran, he kept stooping to snatch shells; and it seemed to Keola that they glittered as he took them.  The leaves blazed with a clear flame that consumed them swiftly; and presently Keola had but a handful left, and the sorcerer was far off, running and stopping.

“Back!” cried Keola.  “Back!  The leaves are near done.”

At that Kalamake turned, and if he had run before, now he flew.  But fast as he ran, the leaves burned faster.  The flame was ready to expire when, with a great leap, he bounded on the mat.  The wind of his leaping blew it out; and with that the beach was gone, and the sun and the sea, and they stood once more in the dimness of the shuttered parlour, and were once more shaken and blinded; and on the mat betwixt them lay a pile of shining dollars.  Keola ran to the shutters; and there was the steamer tossing in the swell close in.

The same night Kalamake took his son-in-law apart, and gave him five dollars in his hand.

“Keola,” said he, “if you are a wise man (which I am doubtful of) you will think you slept this afternoon on the verandah, and dreamed as you were sleeping.  I am a man of few words, and I have for my helpers people of short memories.”

Never a word more said Kalamake, nor referred again to that affair.  But it ran all the while in Keola’s head — if he were lazy before, he would now do nothing.

“Why should I work,” thought he, “when I have a father-in-law who makes dollars of sea-shells?”

Presently his share was spent.  He spent it all upon fine clothes.  And then he was sorry: 

“For,” thought he, “I had done better to have bought a concertina, with which I might have entertained myself all day long.”  And then he began to grow vexed with Kalamake.

“This man has the soul of a dog,” thought he.  “He can gather dollars when he pleases on the beach, and he leaves me to pine for a concertina!  Let him beware:  I am no child, I am as cunning as he, and hold his secret.”  With that he spoke to his wife Lehua, and complained of her father’s manners.

“I would let my father be,” said Lehua.  “He is a dangerous man to cross.”

“I care that for him!” cried Keola; and snapped his fingers.  “I have him by the nose.  I can make him do what I please.”  And he told Lehua the story.

But she shook her head.

“You may do what you like,” said she; “but as sure as you thwart my father, you will be no more heard of.  Think of this person, and that person; think of Hua, who was a noble of the House of Representatives, and went to Honolulu every year; and not a bone or a hair of him was found.  Remember Kamau, and how he wasted to a thread, so that his wife lifted him with one hand.  Keola, you are a baby in my father’s hands; he will take you with his thumb and finger and eat you like a shrimp.”