The slaves are certainly not overworked—­children of ten do more without fatigue—­and the Apemama labourers have holidays, when the singing begins early in the afternoon.  The diet is hard; copra and a sweetmeat of pounded pandanus are the only dishes I observed outside the palace; but there seems no defect in quantity, and the king shares with them his turtles.  Three came in a boat from Kuria during our stay; one was kept for the palace, one sent to us, one presented to the village.  It is the habit of the islanders to cook the turtle in its carapace; we had been promised the shells, and we asked a tapu on this foolish practice.  The face of Tembinok’ darkened and he answered nothing.  Hesitation in the question of the well I could understand, for water is scarce on a low island; that he should refuse to interfere upon a point of cookery was more than I had dreamed of; and I gathered (rightly or wrongly) that he was scrupulous of touching in the least degree the private life and habits of his slaves.  So that even here, in full despotism, public opinion has weight; even here, in the midst of slavery, freedom has a corner.

Orderly, sober, and innocent, life flows in the isle from day to day as in a model plantation under a model planter.  It is impossible to doubt the beneficence of that stern rule.  A curious politeness, a soft and gracious manner, something effeminate and courtly, distinguishes the islanders of Apemama; it is talked of by all the traders, it was felt even by residents so little beloved as ourselves, and noticeable even in the cook, and even in that scoundrel’s hours of insolence.  The king, with his manly and plain bearing, stood out alone; you might say he was the only Gilbert Islander in Apemama.  Violence, so common in Butaritari, seems unknown.  So are theft and drunkenness.  I am assured the experiment has been made of leaving sovereigns on the beach before the village; they lay there untouched.  In all our time on the island I was but once asked for drink.  This was by a mighty plausible fellow, wearing European clothes and speaking excellent English—­Tamaiti his name, or, as the whites have now corrupted it, ‘Tom White’:  one of the king’s supercargoes at three pounds a month and a percentage, a medical man besides, and in his private hours a wizard.  He found me one day in the outskirts of the village, in a secluded place, hot and private, where the taro-pits are deep and the plants high.  Here he buttonholed me, and, looking about him like a conspirator, inquired if I had gin.

I told him I had.  He remarked that gin was forbidden, lauded the prohibition a while, and then went on to explain that he was a doctor, or ‘dogstar’ as he pronounced the word, that gin was necessary to him for his medical infusions, that he was quite out of it, and that he would be obliged to me for some in a bottle.  I told him I had passed the king my word on landing; but since his case was so exceptional, I would go down to the palace at once, and had no doubt that Tembinok’ would set me free.  Tom White was immediately overwhelmed with embarrassment and terror, besought me in the most moving terms not to betray him, and fled my neighbourhood.  He had none of the cook’s valour; it was weeks before he dared to meet my eye; and then only by the order of the king and on particular business.