diet.  Some salted fish I therefore brought him, and along with that a glass of rum:  at sight of which Mapiao displayed extraordinary animation, pointed to the zenith, made a long speech in which I picked up umati—­the word for the sun—­and signed to me once more to place these dainties out of reach.  At last I had understood, and every day the programme was the same.  At an early period of the morning his dinner must be set forth on the roof of the house and at a proper distance, full in view but just out of reach; and not until the fit hour, which was the point of noon, would the artificer partake.  This solemnity was the cause of an absurd misadventure.  He was seated plaiting, as usual, at the beards, his dinner arrayed on the roof, and not far off a glass of water standing.  It appears he desired to drink; was of course far too great a gentleman to rise and get the water for himself; and spying Mrs. Stevenson, imperiously signed to her to hand it.  The signal was misunderstood; Mrs. Stevenson was, by this time, prepared for any eccentricity on the part of our guest; and instead of passing him the water, flung his dinner overboard.  I must do Mapiao justice:  all laughed, but his laughter rang the loudest.

These troubles of service were at worst occasional; the embarrassment of the man’s talk incessant.  He was plainly a practised conversationalist; the nicety of his inflections, the elegance of his gestures, and the fine play of his expression, told us that.  We, meanwhile, sat like aliens in a playhouse; we could see the actors were upon some material business and performing well, but the plot of the drama remained undiscoverable.  Names of places, the name of Captain Hart, occasional disconnected words, tantalised without enlightening us; and the less we understood, the more gallantly, the more copiously, and with still the more explanatory gestures, Mapiao returned to the assault.  We could see his vanity was on the rack; being come to a place where that fine jewel of his conversational talent could earn him no respect; and he had times of despair when he desisted from the endeavour, and instants of irritation when he regarded us with unconcealed contempt.  Yet for me, as the practitioner of some kindred mystery to his own, he manifested to the last a measure of respect.  As we sat under the awning in opposite corners of the cockpit, he braiding hairs from dead men’s chins, I forming runes upon a sheet of folio paper, he would nod across to me as one Tahuku to another, or, crossing the cockpit, study for a while my shapeless scrawl and encourage me with a heartfelt ‘mitai!—­good!’ So might a deaf painter sympathise far off with a musician, as the slave and master of some uncomprehended and yet kindred art.  A silly trade, he doubtless considered it; but a man must make allowance for barbarians—­chaque pays a ses coutumes—­and he felt the principle was there.