What might have been a bitter scene was interrupted by something much more serious.
We saw Whinney running along the edge of the lagoon into which he presently plunged and began swimming madly in our direction. As he drew near I saw that he was deathly white. When we dragged him over the rail he collapsed in the scuppers and burst into tears.
"What is it?" we questioned.
He jerked out his answer in hoarse, broken fragments, while our blood froze.
"It's come.... I was afraid of it.... from the first... it's here... we've done it... we've got to get out... it is not fair..."
"For heaven's sake," I shouted. "What's here? What have we done?"
"Disease!" he panted. "Disease! You know ... how the other islands... Marquesas... Solomons... Tongas... dying, all dying."
His voice sank and he covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking.
"What... what is it? Who has it?"
It was then that Whinney made the supreme call on his nerve, stiffened visibly and answered in a dead voice, "My wife, Babai-Alova-Babai, has prickly-heat!"