We were entering the grounds now, and I guessed it was Mapuhi’s house.
“Mapuhi is here?” I inquired.
“’E, he is at prayer, maybe.”
The chief shrank back, as we were on the porch.
“Faaea oe; tehaeri nei au. You stay; I go,” he said.
On the side veranda, a girl of seventeen or so, in a black gown, lay on a mattress and yawned as she scratched her knee with her toes—not of the same leg. She was almost naked, slender and very brown. These Paumotuans are darkened by the sun, their hair is not long and beautiful like the Tahitians’. Beauty is a matter of food and fresh water. She lay on this bare mattress, without sheets or pillows, evidently just awakening for the day. She made quite a picture when she smiled. The daughter of the king, doubtless.
There was a noise in response to my knock, and the door opened. A tousled pompadour of yellowish-red hair above hazel eyes peeped out, the eyes snapped in amazement, and their owner, a strapping chap of twenty-five, put out his hand.
“Hello! Where are you from?” he said.
“Off the Marara just now, and from the United States not long ago.”
“Well, gee cricketty, I’m glad to see you! My name’s Overton, T. E. Overton of Logan, Utah. Come here, Martin! He’s Martin De Kalb of Koosharem, Utah. We’re Mormon elders. Say, it’s good to talk United States!”