"Not me," he said briefly, when we explained the necessity of our departure. "Not by a damn sight."
In vain we reasoned, urged and argued.
"Don't you want to go back to your own people?" asked Swank weakly.
A mocking laugh was the reply.
"My own people! Who was I among my own people? Just a bunch of first names—no last name at all. William Henry Thomas! That's a hell of a bunch of names. Who am I here? Fatakahala—Flower of Darkness—I guess that'll be about all. Good night, gentlemen."
With the agility of a monkey he bounded up his tree and disappeared. I stood at the foot of the tree and tried to argue further with him. "Remember Henry James," I shouted. "Think of Charles Henry George." It was in vain.
Swank started after him, but as he reached the floor-level a large hola-nut struck him squarely on the top of the head and he fell back, stunned.
Still further depressed we made our way back to the Kawa, our hearts aching as with the hurt of burns, a dull, throbbing torture.
"Drink?" said Captain Triplett in his most treacly manner. He held out a cup of lava-lava, the most deadly beverage of the islands. It is mixed with phosphorus and glows and tastes like hell-fire. I saw his plan and for once was grateful. We took the bowl from his hands and filed into the tiny cabin—each picking out a corner to fall in.
In silence we filled our shells and raised them to our lips, the last thought of each of us for our lost loved ones!