The root is pounded, kneaded in the bowl, and strained. “Fakatau,” cries the presiding Matabule. Then as the cocoa-nut is filled, the man at the bowl gives the piercing long-drawn cry, “Kava kuo heka,” and as he ceases, the cry is taken up from the darkness outside—a wail of agony.
“Hark! what is that?” says Laifone. It comes again and ceases in choking sobs—a woman’s voice.
A man runs out, and in a moment returns. “It is Ana Finau,” he says; “the police are doing something to her.”
The wail of agony comes again, mixed with the accents of a man’s voice in anger, and a dull sound like a blow.
“Go and tell them to be quieter,” says the presiding Matabule; “or stay,” he adds, “tell them to take her farther off. Don’t they know we are drinking kava?”
Franz Kraft is entertaining to-night. It is a fact to be remembered in Vavau when one copra-trader spends the evening with another, for competition is strong and the milk of human kindness watery. There, in the mean little room at the back of the store, they sit at the only table, which is furnished with glasses, a cracked jug, and the inevitable square black bottle. Round the room are ranged a number of half-emptied cases of cheap German prints and cutlery, whose contents are piled about, to be within reach if any of the shelves in the store should need replenishing. Franz Kraft, in a dirty flannel shirt and trousers, unkempt, perspiring, and bibulous, is not a fascinating-looking person, but he is prosperous and refined as compared with his companion. They have reached the quarrelsome stage of the evening,—anon they will be vowing eternal friendship,—and Franz is accusing his boon companion of the heinous crime of underselling him, and emphasising his forcible remarks with heavy blows with his fist upon the table. It is hard to realise that this squalid ruffian, who is content to live on fare that the forecastle of a whaler would reject, is worth ten or twelve thousand pounds, made by his own thrift and hard work.
“You haf for dwenty bounds of kreen cobra one shilling given, I say. Finau, she tell me,” he cries, with emphasis born of gin.
The door behind him opens, and a gust of wind extinguishes the kerosene-lamp. Franz swears as he gropes for the matches. But when they are found the lamp-funnel is too hot to hold, and the match goes out. The boon companion slams the door to with his foot, and in doing so stumbles against a soft body on the floor.
“Who the h—ll is it?” he cries; “some d—d nigger. A woman, by G—d!” he adds, as the body groans in answer to his kick.
Franz having succeeded in lighting the lamp, turns to look at the intruder. A woman lies face downwards on the floor sobbing. The Englishman takes her roughly by the arm, and turns her over.