“I have sense enough to see that you are making a lot of fuss over nothing. Tell the beastly savage that he can keep his wretched birds. I would only have wrung their necks and had them cooked.”
The young warrior who held the cage, set it down, and striding up beside the Man Who Knew Everything dealt him an open-handed back-hand blow on the side of the head—a favourite trick of Samoan wrestlers and fighters—and Marchmont went down upon the matted floor with a smash. I thought he was killed—he lay so motionless—and in an instant there flashed across my memory a story told to me by a medical missionary in Samoa, of how one of these terrific back-handed “smacks” dealt by a native had broken a man's neck.
However, in a few minutes, Marchmont recovered, and rose to his feet, spoiling for a fight. The natives regarded him with a sullen but assumed indifference, and drew back, looking at me inquiringly. The matter might have ended seriously, but for two things—Marchmont was at heart a gentleman, and in response to my urgent request to him to apologise for the gross affront he had put upon our host—did so frankly by first extending his hand to the man who had knocked him down. And then, as he never did things by halves, he came with me to Asi and said, as he shook hands with him:—
“By Jove, Mr. Asi, that man of yours could knock down a bullock. I never had such a thundering smack in my life.”
The chief smiled, then said gravely, in English, that he was sorry that such an unpleasant incident had occurred. Then, after—with its many attendant ceremonies—we had drunk our bowls of kava, and were smoking and chatting, Asi asked Marchmont to let him examine his gun and rifle (Marchmont had a Soper rifle and one of Manton's best make of guns; I had my Winchester and a fairly good gun). The moment Asi saw the Soper rifle his eyes lit up, and he produced another from one of the house beams overhead, and said regretfully that he had no cartridges left, and was using a Snider instead. Marchmont promptly offered to give him fifty.
“You must not do that,” I said, “it will get us into serious trouble. Asi”—and I turned to the chief—“will understand why we must not give him cartridges to be used for warfare. It would be a great breach of faith for us to do so—would it not?”
Keenly anxious as he was to obtain possession of the ammunition, the chief, with a sigh of regret, acquiesced, but Marchmont sulked, and for quite two hours after we had left the rebel village did not exchange a word with me.
After getting over the range, and whilst we were descending the slope to the southern littoral, some mongrel curs that belonged to our carriers, and had gone on ahead of us, put up a wild sow with seven suckers, and at once started off in pursuit. The old, razor-backed sow doubled and came flying past us, with her nimble-footed and striped progeny following. Marchmont and I both fired simultaneously—at the sow. I missed her, but my charge of No 3 shot tumbled over one of the piglets, which was at her heels, and Marchmont's Soper bullet took her in the belly, and passed clean through her. But although she went down for a few moments she was up again like a Jack-in-the-box, and with an angry squeal scurried along the thick carpet of dead leaves, and then darted into the buttressed recesses of a great masa'oi (cedar) tree, which was evidently her home, followed by two or three game mongrels.
Dropping his rifle, Marchmont ran to the trees, seized the nearest cur by the tail, and slung it away down the side of the slope, then he kicked the others out of his way, and kneeling down peered into the dark recess formed by two of the buttresses.
“Come out of that,” I shouted, “you'll get bitten if you go near her. What are you trying to do? Get out, and give the dogs a chance to turn her out.”