“Well, now! if that’s not the irony of fate, and the way of this world all over!” was all I could mutter, as G—— knocked the ashes out of his pipe and finished his story, took his flute from his pocket, and began to warble sweetly, “Scenes that are brightest.”
G—— was a kind of hero to O’Hara and myself after that. We followed him about, and felt the glamour of romance shine whenever we stood in his remarkable presence. I think it was the very next day that he took us down the river, then across country to a native village, and introduced us both to a fine-looking, native woman. She treated us in good style when G—— told her that we were his friends. I noticed that she looked up into his eyes as though she were some sister of his.
“Who is she?” I ventured to ask him at last.
“It’s her,—the kid we took up into the Kai Tholos mountains that time,—little Sanga,” he replied.
CHAPTER XVII. SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY
Poetry’s Legitimate Child—Music’s Fairyland—A Civilized Old Man of the Sea—A Clerical Hat is the Symbol of Modern Religion.
HAD it not been for men like D—— and many other striking personalities who enlivened the Organization, we should have cleared out of it sooner than we did. We were considerably in debt to the host of that Sailors’ Home, too. There were no certified bailiffs in the South Seas, but if one’s account was overdue, credit was taken out of the debtor in a novel manner. Bones discovered that one of his customers owed him about fifty dollars for board.
“Goying ter pye up?” said he laconically.
“Hain’t gotter cent ter bless meself with till I gets an adwance note,” replied the stranded one. There was no further parley on the subject. Bones simply caught the culprit by the scruff of the neck, placed one knee in the middle of his back, and then, crash! sent the unfortunate devil through the South Sea bankruptcy court at the end of his boot—right through the open door—bang! on to the sward. And the discharged bankrupt, out of debt, went his way, unworried, free from all his late liabilities. Once or twice there was a fight when the members took sides on behalf of someone who could not pay his way; hats, rum mugs, and tin pots would fly about, but it was soon all over. They would bind up each other’s wounds, shake hands all round, and end up in a tremendous drinking bout. Sometimes highly-cultured men would step out of the great unknown into that shanty’s door—actors, musicians, poets, and sad-looking literary men, who would imbibe rum and prove highly entertaining. Some had fine voices, others recited Hamlet, or made the place hum with laughter ere they drank up, clinked their glass in some toast, and then, to the cry of “God speed,” once more departed out into the great unknown.