having through this poor lost man. Every one is full of pity—but what can one do? They are so cunning, such people. He manages to get drink somewhere, somehow—no one can guess how.
I have an extraordinary housemaid attending to my room. He—for such servants are always he’s here—is a Kanaka, a new arrival. On being engaged he was furnished with a whole new rigout: a suit of thick blue pilot cloth, flannel shirt, boots and socks, felt hat, and woollen muffler. It is very hot, but all these he wears all day and always. He has had, I suppose, his instructions about sweeping out my room, and adheres rigidly to them. When I am dressing, in he comes, ignores me absolutely, sweeps out the room, often bringing the broom over my toes, and continually sweeping out socks, shoes, and anything which for a moment lies on the ground. He pays no attention to my remonstrances, not understanding a word of English, and I am often to be seen darting out in scanty attire to rescue something he has swept out ere the cassowary and the pelicans eat it, and one day found these creatures sampling a pair of braces he had swept out. Luckily the pelicans were at one end and the cassowary at the other, so I was able to defeat both.
Bridget likes to come along and have a chat with me, as of course I am the interesting visitor to the island just now, and every one is curious about my real motive for being here. It cannot be pearl fishing; what can it be? They know I have to go soon, so that really they are making much of me here. But why Bridget likes to confide in me is that I am no resident here, and she can yarn away about all her admirers in safety. I often tell her she will be the death of me but she thinks there is no dying about me, and that I'll “kape.”
