It was Tapee who gave us this last bit of information. As the old chief crept into the disused native hut and, squatting down by us, told us these things, much became clear to me. I recalled many things about Fae Fae’s manner, which, though fascinating and romantic, seemed out of the normal even in a native maid. We hid in that hut for three days, safe from the French officials; but I felt pretty gloomy as I thought of the prospect of our getting three years in the island calaboose. I gave out no hint of my qualms to O’Hara, but I well knew that there was a good chance of both of us being transported to the convict settlement at Ill Nou, Noumea! The following night, however, we secured an old canoe, through the help of Tapee, and paddled round to Matavai Bay, where we heard that a tramp steamer was anchored.
And the next day, as we heard the tramping far overhead and the dull pomp-e-te-pomp of engines, we both crept forth, moved our cramped, huddled limbs, and groaned. I chewed a morsel off one of our four coco-nuts. Then I caught a shadowy glimpse of O’Hara’s sweating black face as he took a drink from the water-bottle, and groped with his hands amongst the tiers of coal and terrific heat.
“Come on, this way!” I gasped, as I crawled along in that monstrous tomb where we found ourselves buried alive! “That’s better!” I said, as I felt a whiff of purer air come along some dark, labyrinthine way. O’Hara sat by me in the gloom, groping about as he carefully replaced the water-bottle and coco-nut in my portmanteau (an old green baize bag that I always carried when I travelled incognito).
Then O’Hara climbed up on my shoulders and peered through the little round hole just above our heads. For a long time he stared, gazing away to the far south-west horizon, where rose the rugged pinnacles of La Diadem, still visible.
“We’re safe enough now. They won’t catch us, I’ll bet,” said I.
“Ah, my darlint Fae Fae! I’ll never be happy again.”
“Yes, you will,” I murmured soothingly, as O’Hara still gazed through that dirty coal-bunker’s glass porthole, staring wistfully so as to get the last glimpse, as sunset touched the mountain palms of far-away Tahiti! We were stowaways down in the hold of a tramp steamer, far out at sea, outbound for Honolulu!
CHAPTER VII. THE HEATHEN’S GARDEN OF EDEN
Tangalora the Samoan Scribe—Where the Gods and Goddesses first met in Council—The Materials of which the first Mortal Children were Fashioned—The first Wondering Men—The first Women—How the first Babies came to their Mothers.