“Then a coffee-coloured devil cut in and seemed to carry on the argument.
“Taute said the chocolate men and the coffee grinders were two different races, though joined in the one tribe, and they were arguing which was the bravest.
“Other chaps cut in, and then all of a sudden they began running about, and before you could say ‘knife’ they split, the chocolate men on one side, the coffee crowd on the other, with Tiaki running about half bughouse, trying to keep order, and the row growing bigger all the time till suddenly a coffee man remembered his bag of bombs and fetches out a cracker, gives it a twist, and lets fly at the chocolate man opposite him, sending his head to glory.
“Did you ever see schoolboys snowballing each other? All over the sands they were, one chap chasing another, stooping to pick crackers from their bags and screw them tight and then letting fly, heads and arms and legs being blown away—not that we stopped to watch; we were running for the boat. Next moment we had her off, and we didn’t wait to pick up the anchor when we got aboard; we dropped the chain and shoved, leaving Sru to come over to shovel up the remains, and pleased to think that the Winchesters he’d diddled out of us wouldn’t be much use to him since the crackers had spoiled his target.
“I expect there wasn’t a dozen fighting men on that island left whole and sound, but that’s neither here or there. I was just telling you it as a case in point. There’s something in one tribe that makes for war against another tribe even if they’ve been living happily together for years. It shows clearer in savages than civilised folk, but it’s in both and it’s got to be reckoned with by anyone who wants to do away with war for good and all.”
He tapped his pipe out, and we sat watching the Pacific coming creaming in on the sands and round the rocks, the Pacific, that storm centre or Lake of Peace for the whole world, according to the way men may arrange their tribal differences and call upon intellect to balance instinct.
CHAPTER IX.
THE OTHER ONE
I
Sydney is one of the finest towns in the world and it has the finest harbour, unless you call San Francisco Bay a harbour, it has the most hospitable people and a gaiety and push all its own, also, in the matter of temperature, when it chooses it can beat any other town except maybe Calcutta.
“A hot shop,” said Brent. He was seated at a bar adorned with coloured bottles, and a girl with peroxide of hydrogen tinted hair had just handed him a lemon squash with a hummock of ice in it.