When Big Chief retired with his men for consultation, he called Jarwin aside.
“Jarwin,” he said, with unusual gravity, “you must not hear our palaver.”
“Why not, old feller?”
“It is your business to obey, not to question,” replied Big Chief, sternly. “Go—when I want you I will find you. You may go and look at the Cookee missionary, but, remember, I have your promise.”
“Honour bright,” replied Jarwin with a sigh.
“The promise of a Breetish tar?”
“Surely,” replied Jarwin.
“Of a Christian?” said Big Chief, with emphasis.
“Aye, that’s the idee; but it’s a hard case, old boy, to advise a poor feller to go into the very jaws o’ temptation. I would rather ’ee had ordered me to keep away from ’em. Howsever, here goes!”
Muttering these words to himself, he left his savage friends to hold their palaver, and went straight into the “jaws of temptation,” by walking towards the cottage of the missionary. It was a neat wooden erection, built and plastered by the natives. Jarwin hung about the door; sometimes he even ventured to peep in at the windows, in his intense desire to see and hear the long-lost forms and tones of his native land; and, as the natives generally were much addicted to such indications of curiosity, his doing so attracted no unusual attention.