The very forest trees became etherealized to my eyes as their big heads moved and sighed to the soughing night winds, humming out half-forgotten memories of cherished things. And when those old trees tenderly waved their arms over the weird child, then took partners, and commenced to waltz slowly, I didn’t wonder much; I still played on, wailing forth the magical melodies that Soogy sang to my listening ears. It was clear enough that the child had never been taught dancing in any mortal school, for, as his small limbs moved in rhythmical motion, they swerved not one bit from the tempo of the swaying forest flowers as the shifting fingers of the zephyrs tossed them gently one way, and then softly the other way. And my chagrin was complete when I realized that my cultured ear served only to empower me with discernment enough to know that, as a conductor of the most subtle movements in that great orchestra of the forest-night and mighty, waltzing trees, I was simply nowhere where that conductor, an Old-Man-Frog, was concerned, as, with his wonderful clappers going “Click-er-tee-clack! currh! currh! clack-er to-clack,” he got the most marvellous, subtle musical effects from that wonderful ensemble. The pathos of the tiny streamlet’s voice as it hurried by us, then ran with fright under the forest trees and leapt into the sea, convinced me that I was beautifully mad—as mad as I am now deadly sane. It may have been some inherited madness, or possibly Soogy had some magnetic influence over me. I know not which it was. But I do know that, sometimes when I lay half asleep under the ndrala trees of the moonlit forest, he would sit singing wonderful songs for my half-sleeping ears—songs that would seem to drift my life across into unremembered ages till I became one with the stars and the music of the infinite. The very caves along the shore of my bedroom floor seemed to sing out some old sorrow as he came, night after night, creeping out of the forest like some little phantom child, to make my mossy bed!
Such a one was Soogy. I never dreamed that such sorrow could come to one through knowing a little child—sorrow that made my heart ache for many a day. The whole trouble came about through an old man suddenly arriving at the Organization just when O’Hara and I had determined to get a ship and clear out for Nuka Hiva. We were both tired out, had been sauntering about amongst the villages, and were glad enough to get back to the Organization’s hospitable roof; but, just as we were approaching the door, we heard a terrible row in progress. It appeared that someone had robbed the aforesaid old man of his valuable pocketbook. There he stood, by the wide-open door, waving his hands in despair, shouting out:
“I’ll give a hundred pounds to the one who finds my pocketbook.”
He was a strange-looking old fellow. He wore a clerical hat, a stiff, high collar, and grey side-whiskers; and he was purple to the forehead as he stood there just beneath the low-roof saloon, shouting:
“Where’s my pocketbook?”
O’Hara and I stared with astonishment to see that old gent, so fashionably attired, a bullet hole in his hat, standing up for himself, defiantly facing the whole damned crew of sun-tanned, villainous-looking men as they thrust their faces, chins, and fists out of the door, and looked scornfully at the grand old man! Suddenly Tanner Bolt, who had his nose missing and had a face like a diseased Chinaman, stepped forward and knocked the old fellow’s hat off. O’Hara and I, not liking such a cowardly act, immediately sided with the new-comer, who had sought protection from justice in that forest hermitage. Bones regarded O’Hara and me rather fiercely for a moment, then, whipping his revolver out, turned to the men and roared:
“I’ll shoot the first God-damned rogue who touches any of ’em.”
Then the hullabaloo subsided. After that O’Hara and I made tracks outside, as G—— went in to have his nap on the saloon settee. The old gent followed us outside.
“A lot of rogues and thieves, that’s what they are,” he almost squeaked, as he shook his fist at the half-hidden den, his false teeth dropping on the sward, so violent was his rage as he shook from head to feet.
“Do you chaps belong to them?” said he, as he surveyed us critically.