“One thing is evident: you don’t want me here,” she said. “I’ll man the whale-boat to-morrow and go over to Tulagi.”
“But as I told you before, that is impossible,” he cried. “There is no one there. The Resident Commissioner is away in Australia. Them is only one white man, a third assistant understrapper and ex-sailor—a common sailor. He is in charge of the government of the Solomons, to say nothing of a hundred or so niggers—prisoners. Besides, he is such a fool that he would fine you five pounds for not having entered at Tulagi, which is the port of entry, you know. He is not a nice man, and, I repeat, it is impossible.”
“There is Guvutu,” she suggested.
He shook his head.
“There’s nothing there but fever and five white men who are drinking themselves to death. I couldn’t permit it.”
“Oh thank you,” she said quietly. “I guess I’ll start to-day.—Viaburi! You go along Noa Noah, speak ’m come along me.”
Noa Noah was her head sailor, who had been boatswain of the Miélé.
“Where are you going?” Sheldon asked in surprise.—“Vlaburi! You stop.”
“To Guvutu—immediately,” was her reply.
“But I won’t permit it.”