“Ah mees,” wailed old Lydia, as she continued. “The great white mans were sorry for mees and so they did drink and drink.”
When I asked her about Bill Grimes her face became very sympathetic. “Ah, good Grimes, it was he who put Benbows to beds. Benbow very ill, no take boots off—feet pained!”
Then the old woman looked at me and said: “Ah, Glimes bad mans, but old Lydia forgives him for stealing.”
“What did he steal?” said I, at hearing this strange accusation about my honest Grimes.
“He steal my brass locket, with my pretty Wayee’s poto [photo] in it.”
As the woman told me of this slight indiscretion of my honest pal I felt sorry for Grimes. I easily imagined the temptation, considering his infatuation for the girl. I could almost see him slipping the image of the girl off the bedroom toilet-table as he put Benbow to bed, and could hear him unconsciously express the one great truth of modern civilisation as he murmured: “What the eye don’t see the ’eart don’t grieve abart!”
Suddenly Lydia ceased her tears and darted across the room to the pocket of some old skirt. Then she returned to me and handed me a little note. It was a letter from Grimes, left by him in the care of Lydia for me, should I return ere he came back to Tai-o-hae. This is how it ran. I copy it from the dirty bit of paper that lies before me on my desk as I write:
“Dear Old Pal.—’Ave goned away on the Bell bird, hoff to find Wayler, Benbow’s dorter, you knows. Opes to be back soone. Missed you afully like. rote some fine poultry [poetry]. Aint alf ad a spree since you went hoff on the Sea Swaller. If you gets back to Ty-o-hae afore I comes back, wait for me. If I finds Waylayer I moight marry ’er. You can come and stay wif us. Good-bye pal, dont forgit Grimes, we’ll meet soone
“Bill Grimes.”
When I had read this note I felt depressed, and a bit wild, too, that I had not been back in time to tell them all that I knew about Waylao. I gathered from Lydia that the Bell Bird had gone to Fiji.