The old chief was none other than Calla’s father, Wanga, and he raised up his son, and calling to some of his men gave orders which we could not understand, but of which the purport was soon evident, for the two least damaged of the canoes of Aneitou were hastily manned with unwounded crews, and their fighting-decks filled with warriors, among whom Calla took a prominent position, being easily distinguished, he alone being unadorned with war-paint; and soon these two were darting over the waves in pursuit of the beaten and flying men of Paraka.
While this was going on, we were speaking to the white man, who, when we came to where he was standing, said, “Why, where on earth did ye drop from? A shipwreck, I s’pose. How long ago? Ye’ve rigged that craft of yours up on some island.”
Tom told him our story in as few words as he could, and said how thankful we were to have met him, and be rescued from being killed, cooked, and eaten, which would doubtless have been our fate if we had fallen into the hands of the Paraka cannibals.
“That ’ud be about your lot anywheres here, for all of ’em eat men; only as how as you’ve brought off Calla, and his father’s a big man in his island, you may be safe for a time.”
“Well, but how do you live among them? Why haven’t they eaten you?”
“Oh, I’ve been too useful to ’em for ’em to want to eat me; and, besides, an old shellback such as I am would be too tough to make anything but soup of. But now, mates, let’s be getting home again; and when we come to my shanty, which is just behind the point where the canoes came from, we can have a palaver, and overhaul all our logs. I’ll come along of you in your craft and pilot you in. Can you stow a couple or four black fellows and their paddles? They’ll help you along.”
We eagerly agreed to the help of the natives, who with their great carved paddles certainly added much to our speed.
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