“A sick man is not particular and seldom wants much grub. They’ve got a sticky substance they call poi, which they use in place of bread that’s great. Try some,” and Rothwell pushed over toward Wilbur a highly polished calabash containing a greyish substance.
“Got a spoon handy?” that worthy asked.
“Spoon? you’re a green one for sure. Poi, my dear sir, is eaten this way,” and Rothwell stuck two fingers into the calabash, gave a quick twist and placed what adhered to them into his mouth and made a grimace of delight. “Ono,” he said.
“Oh, no, indeed! Thank you; nothing of that sort for me,” and nothing could induce Wilbur to taste poi.
He soon left, and Violetta, who had seen Wilbur’s expression of disgust while Rothwell was initiating him into the mysteries of poi-eating, laughed softly. “Your friend is very particular,” she said.
“Very.”
“Why did you come to Hawaii?”
“Well,—er—for business.”
“You want to buy a sugar plantation?”
“No, I am a dentist and my friend is a lawyer.”