"A Canaque?" snapped Captain Jean. "A Canaque! I had no word in my contrac' about any Canaque.... Leave him zere.... He is only a dam' nigger. He'll do well enough where he is."
And Captain Jean was right, perfectly right, for while the Petite Suzanne was taking aboard her grisly cargo the wind freshened from the west, and just about the time she was shaping away for Australia the "dam' nigger" spread his own sail of pandanus leaves and twirled his own helm of niaouli wood and headed the catamaran eastward, back toward New Caledonia.
Feeling somewhat dry after his exertion, he plucked at random from the platform a hollow reed with a sharp end and, stretching himself at full length in his accustomed place at the stern, he thrust the reed down into one of the bladders underneath and drank his fill of sweet water....
He had a dozen such storage bladders remaining, built into the floats at intervals above the water line—quite enough to last him safely home again.
A Rex Ingram—Metro Picture.
Where the Pavement Ends.
A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.
THE LOST GOD
Prophets have cried out in print, no man regarding, and saints have been known to write their autobiographies, and even angels are credited now and then with revealing most curious matters in language quite plain and ungrammatical. But I have seen the diary of an authentic god who once went to and fro on the earth and in the waters underneath.