Before this was ended a large crowd came in, filling the building to its utmost capacity, and Phil whispered to me:—
"It seems as if every man, woman, and boy had some cause for complaint against the Britisher, and there's no question but that he's feeling uncomfortable in mind. I wonder why they don't set about roasting us?"
"I reckon Benson has done something they don't like, and he'll be hauled over the coals before anything is done with us," and as I spoke a faint hope sprang up in my heart, although I could not understand that there was any reason for it.
The Britisher talked for more than ten minutes, the Typees listening to him most intently; but no sooner had he come to an end than the man who entered first—he to whom I believed the dwelling belonged—began to question Benson angrily, and before he was come to an end every man present was speaking.
Then, when the uproar was greatest, one of the party cut the bonds which bound Phil and me, indicating by gestures that we were to recline on the couch just vacated by the Britisher.
This was indeed a startling reception, as compared with what we had anticipated, and our surprise amounted almost to bewilderment when another of the party brought us a young cocoanut with the top removed that we might drink the milk, while a third and fourth offered fruit which they laid before us on the divan.
While we were thus being treated as honored guests, the majority of the party were evidently scolding Benson with many a menacing gesture.
"He's got himself into trouble somehow," Phil said with a chuckle of content, "and we seem to be getting the best of this party. Talk about your cannibals! Why, these people couldn't treat us any better if they were missionaries!"
Presently Benson seemed to have lost his temper, and, after loud words, attempted to stalk out of the building with his musket under his arm.
Before one would have had time to wink, the Britisher was lying on the stones of the pi-pi, and the chief man of the party was in possession of the gun.