“Indeed, I am very proud. And why don't you call me Lucia, too, Mr. Sherry? Every one else does.”
“Very well,” I said, with a laugh, “I will talk Tarawan to you: Tiâkâpo, Lucia.”
“Tiâkâpo, Simi;” and her voice was pleasant and sweet to hear, although the word tiakako meant nothing more than “good-night.”
CHAPTER IX
Everything was ready at last, water, stores, arms, and ammunition, and the boat, with mainsail and jib hoisted, was lying just abreast of the station, in charge of Tematan and Tepi, surrounded by canoes.
In the house with me were Mrs. Krause and Niâbon; and Kaibuka and his head men, who had come to take formal charge of the station, and to bid us farewell. I handed old Kaibuka letters to be given to the supercargo of the firm's next vessel, presented him and his colleagues with a new musket each, together with powder and bullets, and a small case of tobacco, and then we all went outside, and I locked the door formally, and handed him the key. He took it, unlocked the door, went inside a few steps, and then it was locked a second time, the key twisted in one of his pendant ear-lobes, and the ceremony was over. Then we all trooped down to the beach together, got into a canoe, and went on board.
Shaking hands with old Kaibuka and the rest of the natives who swarmed around us to say farewell, I told Tepi to lift the anchor, and in another five minutes the little craft began to move through the water towards the reef, accompanied by thirty or forty canoes and native boats under sail, all packed with natives of both sexes, shouting their farewells, and wishing us good fortune.