IN PAGO PAGO BAY

In the settlement of the Samoan imbroglio in the late nineties by the partition of the group between Germany and the United States—Great Britain, the third party to the controversy having been granted compensatory rights in the Tongas and Solomons—America, for all practical purposes, had much the best of the bargain. Germany entered into actual possession of the two largest islands of the group, Upolou and Savaii, leaving the United States to do the same with Tutuila and the Manuas. The American government, however, contented itself with a naval station at Pago Pago, Tutuila, and the exercise of a mild protectorate over the natives of the rest of that island. Germany's rich and beautiful islands, after proving little more than a costly colonial experiment, passed out of her hands forever at the end of the late war. The establishment of a naval station at Pago Pago has placed the United States, strategically, in the strongest position in western Polynesia.

The bay of Pago Pago is unquestionably the finest harbour in the whole of the Pacific. In form it is not unlike a fat letter "L," of which the shorter line is the entrance and the longer, inclining slightly inward, the bay proper. Ages ago what is now the harbour was undoubtedly a huge crater occupying the centre of the island of Tutuila. One day the water must have broken through into the lava, causing an explosion which, in addition to settling the island a thousand feet or so, blew out a slice of the crater's rim and dropped it out of sight somewhere in the deep sea. The place where the slice blew out is the present entrance to the harbour, and it is wide and deep enough to hold the Capitol at Washington without seriously interfering with navigation.

So completely landlocked is the harbour, and so smooth are its waters in all weathers, that from anywhere in the inner bay—except for the tropical vegetation which clothes the mountain sides—it might pass for a Swiss lake. The high walls of the ancient crater cut off the rays of the morning and evening sun, and the velvety green of the wonderful tropic tapestry which covers them, reflecting scarcely any light and heat, makes the harbour several degrees cooler than any other Pacific island of similar latitude, either north or south of the equator. At noon of the warmest day of the month which the Lurline remained in the harbour the temperature was 79°, Fahrenheit. The coolest day was 74° at noon and 72° at midnight, while the water held around an even 80° all of the time.

The naval reservation, with its dock, coal pile, ice plant and warehouses, occupies the only extensive piece of level land on the bay. Above, on a jutting promontory which commands the entrance and every foot of the harbour line, is the residence of the commander of the station and the governor of the island, occupied at the time of our visit by Captain E. B. Underwood, U.S.N. At the end of the bay, half submerged in a forest of coconuts, bread-fruit, bananas and mangoes, is the Samoan village of Pago Pago, the most important native settlement on the island. Several other small villages form breaks in the solid colour of the verdant rondure with occasional isolated circular roofs of brown thatch dotting the grey ribbon of the trail which binds them together.

Ever a splendid physical specimen and ever possessed of the kindliest and happiest of dispositions, the Samoan has undergone less change in his contact with the white man than any other native of the South Pacific. This is particularly true of those of Tutuila, for the mailed fist of the German War Lord had rested heavily on Upolou and Savaii for over a decade at the time of our visit, and one detected traces of sullenness and discontent among their peoples which he would search for in vain among the care-free natives of the American island. In many ways, in fact, Tutuila is deserving of being called a model tropical colony. The government, except for a gently exercised judicial supervision, is practically autonomous, and the natives, left to the enjoyment of the customs and institutions of their fathers, have retained a self-respect, dignity and amiability without parallel in any of the other island groups of Polynesia. The American protectorate over Tutuila is proving a happy medium between the paternalism of the British and the repressiveness of the Germans and French, the result being an island where intercourse with the natives is unmixedly edifying and pleasant.

The Samoan islands are rightly called the Navigator Group, for both in their achievements of the past along that line, as well as in the seamanship they display today, their natives are in a class by themselves. The superiority of line of a Samoan "out-rigger" canoe over that of those of any other South Pacific group is apparent to the veriest novice, as is also the ability with which it is handled. The following description of a Samoan "out-rigger," which was written by an expert, will convey to the initiated an idea of the technical construction of this remarkable little craft.

"A naval station at Pago Pago has placed the United States, strategically,
in the strongest position in western Polynesia"

"Chief Tufeli in the uniform of a sergeant of Fita-fitas"

"Although the Samoan canoe is a 'dugout,' it is far from being the clumsy affair that the name indicates. Though the hull is indeed dug out of a single log, it is none the less moulded along lines of grace as well as utility. The hull is well sheered and tapered toward the slightly elevated prow, perpendicular and bladelike in its thinness. It is moulded with reference to fluid resistance and cut so as to minimize the drag of the water, and yet gain every advantage from a following sea. They do not spread or widen the hull amidships, even in the very small canoes, nor, on the other hand, are the lines of the out-rigger (left) side at all flattened; the hulls are all symmetrical with respect to the longitudinal axis."

One used to handling a Peterboro will find a Samoan canoe very cranky at first, owing to the fact that the outrigger causes a drag which must be overcome by dipping first on one side and then on the other. The size of the canoe is limited only by the size of the trunk from which it is hewn. Occasionally one is seen carrying seven or eight adults, but the capacity of the ordinary canoe is not over two or three.

In the old days the Samoans, like all the other South Sea islanders, made their long voyages in big double canoes or catamarans driven by huge sails of matting. This type, though still common in Fiji, has practically disappeared from Samoa, its place being taken by the malaga, a modified whaleboat. This stoutly-built double-ender is generally acknowledged to be the most seaworthy type of open boat known, and instances are on record of its having ridden out storms in which sailing vessels, and even steamers, came to grief. The Samoan started with the orthodox whaleboat and kept building larger and larger until the limit of practical construction was reached. In fact, construction went somewhat beyond the limit of practicability, for a huge malaga built ten years ago in Apia—a veritable Roman galley of an affair, with seats for a hundred rowers—broke its back on its trial trip. Nothing of so colossal proportions has been tried since, though fifty-oar malagas are occasionally seen conveying all of the able-bodied males of a village off to a cricket match.

The malaga most in use is but little larger than the regulation whaleboat. It is stepped for two masts, and, with a big leg-o'-mutton sail hoisted on each, makes good speed if the wind is anywhere abaft the beam. Within eight points of the wind, if any sea is running, too much water comes aboard to make sailing practicable. At such times the canvas is taken in and the oars resorted to until a shift of wind or a change of course makes sailing again possible.

The Samoan invariably sings when he rows, and stopping his mouth would interfere quite as much with the progress of the boat as binding his arms. They pull one man to the oar and take their stroke from the rhythm of the song of the leader. Ask your Samoan boatman how far the next point is, or how long it will take to reach it, and he will tell you "three songs," or four or five songs, as he happens to judge it. On a hot day a crew will stop oftener to rest its throats than its backs. Entering a tortuous, surf-beset passage through a reef, such as leads into all the bays of Tutuila except Pago Pago, a man takes his station on the prow of the malaga and, signalling with his hands, now on one side and now on the other, keeps the helmsman advised of the lay of the channel.

Captain and Mrs. Underwood came off to the yacht the afternoon following our arrival at Pago Pago, their call proving most opportune in chancing to coincide with that of Seuka, the taupo of the village. The latter, in company with her hand-maidens, a dozen or more in all, bearing presents of tapa and fruit, came off in the official malaga, and through neglecting to bring an interpreter with her narrowly missed being taken for a curio vendor and being put off until another day. The Underwoods came to the rescue, however, and prolonged their call until everybody was acquainted.

The taupo or "village maiden" is a functionary as indispensable to a Samoan village as a chief, or even a missionary. She is, in fact, usually the daughter of the chief; or, if that dignitary has no girl in his family, the most attractive maiden chosen from among his near relations. Her duties are the traditional ones of making the official kava, leading the official dances called siva-sivas, and looking after the entertainment and personal comfort of distinguished visitors. Formerly she acted as a sort of vivandiere in time of tribal wars, encouraging her chief's forces by singing in the forefront of the battle. This latter, strange as it may seem, is not an ancient custom by any means. The still young and beautiful wife of Judge E. W. Gurr of Pago Pago, who was taupo of Apia at the time of the now historic war between Maletoa and Mataafa for supremacy in Samoa, went through that sanguinary struggle at the side of her adopted father, the distinguished chief, Seumana-Tafa, and her delightful accounts of her experiences in those stirring days we were privileged to enjoy on a number of occasions during our visit.

The taupo lives in a house of her own, attended by eight or ten handmaidens and a stern—a very stern—duenna. The handmaidens are the most attractive unmarried girls in the village after the taupo, and are chosen for their faces and figures and their ability to dance. Beyond following the taupo in the mazes of the siva-siva and accompanying her on official calls, they have no duties to speak of, but as each one lives in hope of being chosen as a successor when their leader passes from them by marriage or for any other cause, their life is largely a schooling toward that felicitous end. The kava and siva-siva ceremonies are so numerous and intricate that nothing short of many years of instruction and practice can fit a girl properly to perform them, and in this respect the training of a taupo is not unlike that of the court geishas of Japan or certain of the temple nautch girls of India.

The duenna is the guardian of the taupo's morals. To her is delegated the important duty of seeing that the feet of that often temperamental and wilful young personage do not stray from the path of rectitude. Escort, watcher, protector, she is supposed never to let her charge stray beyond the sweep of her eye by day nor the reach of her arm at night. In the old days, in the event of a contretemps, the life of the duenna as well as that of the taupo was forfeit, whether she was guilty of "contributory negligence" or not. Today, although virginity is still the sine qua non of a taupo, the punishment for obliquities is somewhat less drastic, both for guard and guarded.

Seuka had come off to the yacht to invite us to a talolo or official reception to be given in our honour the following evening by Chief Mauga of Pago Pago. After the talolo she and her girls would dance the siva-siva for us, and there would also be some dancing by the men. Of course we accepted the invitation with alacrity.

To this function we went in state, convoyed by a flotilla of canoes sent down by Mauga, the occupants of which enlivened the progress by singing swinging choruses extemporized in our praise. The tide was out when we reached our destination at the end of the bay, as a result of which our cutter grounded upon the edge of the reef. Instantly the members of our escort jumped out of their canoes and swarmed alongside to carry us in across the fifty yards of intervening shallows to the beach. The Commodore and I saw the Mater and Claribel borne unresistingly off in the arms of two bronze, flower-crowned giants, and then, judging it more compatible with our dignity, made the fatal mistake of electing to take the journey "pick-a-back." Before my "mount" had splashed a dozen yards I came to a realization of the fact that it was going to be out of the question to retain my hold on his coco-oiled shoulders while he traversed the whole distance; so, rather than prolong the agony, I dropped off into the water and trudged ashore alone. The air was warm, my ducks were soiled already, and most of the guests would be barefoot anyway, I told myself philosophically. But the Commodore, who, as the official head of the party was out in his nattiest uniform and did not, as he explained later, desire to make his first appearance before the highest chief on the island of Tutuila looking like a ship-wrecked sailor, would not give up without a struggle.

Unfortunately for the Commodore's hopes, the vigorous strangle hold with which he endeavoured to maintain himself on his precarious perch shut off the wind, and with it the song, of the man who was trying to carry him; and because a Samoan cannot perform any kind of labour—and especially a labour of love like the lift in question—without singing, this one came to a quick stop. The jolt started the Commodore slipping, and I was just congratulating myself on the probability that he was going to appear at the party more mussed up than I was, when there came a quick rush from behind and another of the canoeists scooped up the suspended bundle of white in his arms and, carrying it as a mother carries a babe—even as the Mater and Claribel had been borne off—splashed through to the beach.

"Lelei! Thank you! Good boy!" cried the relieved Commodore heartily as he found himself set right side up upon the coral clinkers. And again he cried "Lelei!" (the extent of his Samoan at that time) and "Good Boy!" when the cap which he supposed had fallen off in the water was set jauntily back upon his head by his dusky preserver. Another "Good boy!" greeted the discovery of the fact that his feet were dry, and still another boomed forth when the flickering light of the torches showed the white uniform to be still immaculate. The last one was emphasized with a ringing slap of gratitude bestowed upon the oil-glistening shoulder where his head had lately rested. There came a ripple of low-silvery laughter, and the Commodore's preserver had slipped away among the shadows of the coco trees.

The ruddy glow that suffused the sun-tanned face of the Commodore as I splashed out alongside him was not due entirely to the glare of the torches.

"Did you hear that? Did you see that?" he gasped excitedly, staring off into the moon-mottled shadows. "He was a girl! I've been carried ashore by a girl! You don't suppose that—"

"Don't worry," I said gently; "they were too busy thanking their own preservers to notice you."

Mauga, the fine old gladiator who was giving the talolo, met us at the door of his huge thatched-roofed "palace" and led us to the "seats" of honour—stacks of mats upon which we sat cross-legged—between himself and his handsome chiefess, Faa-oo-pea. After a speech of welcome by the tulafale or "talking chief," there were two or three spirited sword and club-juggling exhibitions by a dozen or so men, magnificent physical specimens who twirled and tossed ancient Samoan weapons as they reeled and lunged in the sinuous movements of the strange dances. In the interval of these Claribel was led away by one of Seuka's handmaidens to have a glimpse of the dressing of that important young personage for the siva-siva that was shortly to follow. When, on her return, we asked her what the taupo was going to wear, she appeared distinctly embarrassed and launched at once into a detailed description of Seuka's marvellous tuiga or headdress, which she had witnessed the assembling and adjustment of. As a matter of fact, as became apparent shortly, that was about all there was to describe. For that reason, and because it is so marvellous an affair intrinsically, I have thought it worth while to set down what the observant Claribel has to say about it in her journal.

"The taupo's badge of office is a three-feet-high headdress called a tuiga. It is a composite affair, part wig, part frontlet of nautilis shell and part a scaffolding of three flower-decked sticks. It is not an easy thing to put on, for it must be assembled piece by piece each time it is wanted. It is producive of constant pain while it is worn and is taken off with a feeling of relief, yet the custom of wearing it on official occasions is so old and rigid that the taupo would scarcely feel properly clad without it. The foundation is a strip of black cloth which is wound around the head at the roots of the hair, drawing all of the latter up into a bunch at the crown. Upon this one stubby lock is tied the wig of natural hair, which is set in a frame of cloth or fibre netting. When this is attached so securely that there is no chance of its becoming dislodged, the scaffolding of slender sticks and a cross piece is tied in front and made fast to the cloth covering over the forehead. The cross piece is usually ornamented with two or three round mirrors and some bright feathers, while a band consisting of several rows of the partition plates of the nautilus shell is often tied across the forehead. With these decorations the taupo wears a neck pendant of a curled boar's tusk and a wreath or two of ula, a few of the bright red fruits of the pandanus occasionally appearing among the latter."

Faa-oo-pea, chieftainess of Pago Pago, making kava

Seuka, taupo of Pago Pago, illustrating a movement in
the Siva

Since Claribel had not seen fit to prepare us for it, the coming of Seuka wearing, besides her tuiga, only a cincture of bright ti leaves on each ankle and an almost negligible bit of ancestral tappa wreathed in a precarious twist about her waist, created something of a stir in a portion of our party. Was it really the same Seuka, she of the downcast eye and the blushing cheek and the long, trailing holakau of the previous afternoon? we asked ourselves. There was the same liquid eye and the same rounded cheek, but now the one was flashing and the other flushing with the surging "dance passion," and as for the holakau, the Commodore avers that his falling out of sympathy with the missionary—the introducer of that atrocious hider-of-charms—dates from that moon-lit evening by the bay of Pago Pago when Seuka danced the siva to the throb of the drum-logs and the music of the ripple of the wavelets on the beach.

On the Samoan siva-siva and its concomitant, the kava ceremony, I will write in another chapter; of this particular siva—our first one—I note here only the high lights of the mental picture which the mention of it always conjures up—the half-lighted interior of the thatch-roofed, mat-floored faletele, with slices of the blue moonlight diverging to mountain and grove and bay through rifts in the woven blinds; the lap of the waves on the coral strand and the lisp of the wind in the bananas running through the boom of the tom-toms and the guttural chants of the spectators, and, in the flickering light of the candlenut torches, those glistening limbs of mahogany, rippling, swaying, flashing, in the infinitely alluring movements of the native dances.

This dance was one of a dozen or more entertainments arranged by the hospitable natives during the time the yacht remained in Pago Pago Bay. One day it was a picnic and swim at a mountain waterfall; again a canoeing party, and another time an evening of Samoan singing. A ten-day-long cricket game between the teams of Pago Pago and Fuaga-sa furnished so much excitement that I am reserving the account of it for a special chapter. The chiefs of nearly every village on the island came and paid us visits of ceremony and brought presents, some of them journeying two days and more by land and water. Our most distinguished visitor was Chief—formerly King—Tufeli, of Manua, a group of small islands which is included with Tutuila in the American protectorate. Tufeli, a man of heroic stature and a most pleasing personality, came over for the express purpose of buying the yacht and sailing her back to Manua. He was not a little disappointed to learn that the Commodore would not find it convenient to turn her over to him in exchange for his season's copra output, but appeared considerably consoled by the barrel of salt beef we gave him as a compromise.

Most pleasant, too, were our relations with the officers of the Naval Station. Shortly after our arrival the Adams came to relieve the Wheeling and the fortnight during which the two American warships were in the harbour was a continual round of festivities. The Residency kept open house, as did also Judge E. W. Gurr, Chief Secretary of Naval Affairs, in his beautiful half-Samoan, half-foreign home on the mountainside.

Judge Gurr, whose wife I have mentioned as having been at one time the taupo of Apia, was for many years Stevenson's attorney and intimate friend in Upolou, and since taking charge of native affairs in Tutuila his thorough knowledge of Samoan character and his sympathetic interest in the welfare of the people have made his services invaluable to the American government. Judge Gurr arranged a voyage around the island for the Lurline, with visits to the principal villages along the coast, a fascinating excursion which was finally given up on account of uncertain harbour facilities. This trip was undertaken, however, by Judge Gurr and myself in the former's whaleboat, and, thanks to my sponsor's prestige, turned out most interestingly.

In no one particular does the lightness with which the Samoan has been touched by outside influence show more clearly than in his architecture. He builds and lives in the same style of house today that was used by his ancestor of a hundred—perhaps a thousand—years ago. Unlike the Hawaiian, Tahitian and Fijian, he has not taken kindly to sawn timber, galvanized iron, nails and glass, and nowhere is his conservatism in this respect more in evidence than in the villages of Tutuila. For this reason a brief description of the construction and furnishing of a typical Pago Pago dwelling may be of interest, and for this I am indebted to Claribel, who spent a whole afternoon, with pencil and notebook, jotting down the details at first hand.

"Although not a nail or dressed board is used in the Samoan house, the finished structure is exceedingly strong and especially attractive to look at. The uprights that support the roofs are the peeled trunks of young breadfruit trees. They are about six inches in diameter, and are set something like a yard apart around a raised oval floor-space that is paved with small smooth stones from the beach. Upon these posts rests the set of beams that support the rafters. The rafters run from the top of the posts to the roof-tree, which is supported by four or five uprights set in the centre of the floor-space. These beams are all laced together with braided coconut fibre, sometimes gaily coloured. The neatest joinery is in the roof, the ceiling being the under side of the thatching, which is laced between small, smoothly dressed branches. These beams are not long, curved tree-trunks as they appear, but comparatively short sections of coconut wood, fitted and dressed and lashed together with fibre so neatly that the joints are not readily discovered.

"Usually the thatch is of sugar cane leaves, though occasionally coco fronds or pandanus blades are used. The walls are made by letting down the 'Venetian blinds' of braided coco palm leaves which hang from the roof beams about four feet above the ground. Although there is no indicated door, the customary entrance is through the opening between the posts to the right of a line drawn through the house between the centre supports of the roof-tree. This is the 'front door'; the 'back door' is any opening between the posts behind a line at right angles to the one just mentioned, and dividing the house between the first two of the central posts. Before these centre posts the host and hostess sit when receiving their guests, and here the taupo sits when she makes the kava. It is the seat of honour for the inmates of the house.

A Samoan house in the course of construction

"Chief Tufeli came over for the express purpose of buying the yacht"

"The furniture of the Samoan house consists mainly of mats woven from coconut and pandanus leaves, some large chests containing the family wardrobe, dishes, arms and trinkets. Most of the food is served on the leaves of the bread-fruit tree or the fau. The fine mats and tappa, which constitute the family heirlooms, are kept in rolls upon the rafters. The beds are piles of mats, six or eight deep, above which are suspended regulation mosquito nets."

An interesting feature of this description is the extent to which it shows the coconut as figuring as a building material in the Samoan house, and now that the utility of that remarkable tree has been mentioned, this will be an appropriate place to outline a few of the indispensable functions it fulfils in the life of all South Sea islanders.

There are several articles of food and general utility, both animal and vegetable, which are of almost vital importance to the peoples by whom they are used, and prominent among these may be noted the seal of the Esquimaux, the salmon of the British Columbian and Alaskan Indians, and the rice and bamboo of the Japanese, Chinese and East Indians. Yet none of these to their respective users occupies anything near so important a place as does the coconut to the South Sea islander. Copra, the dried kernel of the coconut, is the leading, and almost the only, article of commerce in every island of the South Pacific, and as such is the principal contributor to the income of the natives from which everything else they use is bought. The copra of the South Pacific islands is incomparably finer than that of the South American, West Indian or African tropics, and the plantations of Samoa, Fiji and Tahiti are the largest and most productive in the world. Practically all of the copra goes to London or San Francisco to be elaborated into a great variety of products, ranging from railroad grease to high class toilet soap and confectionery. A large and rapidly increasing trade has also sprung up in the outer husk of the coconut which is used in the manufacture of a very durable floor matting.

It is through its direct utility to the South Sea native, however, rather than for its commercial value, that the coconut attains its real importance, for it furnishes him with food, drink and shelter, and figures in some form or other as an almost indispensable adjunct to every pursuit, occupation and recreation in which he indulges. Cuts from the long, tough trunk of the tree are used for fence posts and in bridge construction, while on those islands where no other suitable trees are found a complete and adequate dwelling may be built from the coco palm alone. The trunks serve for uprights, rafters and cross-braces, while the leaves make a durable and waterproof thatch and a light but strong siding. These may also be woven into a dozen different kinds of baskets, bags and trays, and, braided end to end, make an excellent drag-net for catching fish.

The water of the half-ripe nuts is the standard drink of the islands. A good-sized nut will furnish close to a quart of liquid which, no matter how high the temperature of the air, is always cool, sweet and slightly effervescent. The milk of the nut, which is extracted from the kernel by grating and pressing, is used as a flavouring for various dishes, and with coffee makes an excellent substitute for cream. Boiled and pressed, the kernel yields an oil which is of considerable value as a lubricant, and as a stimulator of the growth of the hair is without a peer. It is to their free use of coconut oil, in fact, that the remarkable hirsute growth of the Fijians and other South Sea islanders is directly attributed. The refuse left after making oil is fed to pigs and poultry, a purpose to which it is admirably suited. On the delights of eating coconut-fattened pig, roasted on hot stones and served with miti-hari sauce—itself a mixture of coco milk and lime juice—I have rhapsodized in one of the Tahiti chapters.

The husk of the coconut is woven up into cinnet, lines and ropes, and as such employed in house and boat construction, for fishing, and for every other purpose in which strands of manila, sisal or cotton ordinarily serve. The flint-like shell of the coconut makes a useful grater and scraper, and when heated with the air excluded is reduced to a splendid quality of charcoal. The shells are also used for drinking cups, water-bottles, scoops, catch-alls and bailers for canoes. Tapped at its heart, the trunk yields a liquid which makes an excellent substitute for yeast, while chunks cut from the same portion of the tree forms the base of a salad which is the delight of epicures, both native and white. A still more delectable salad is made from the crisp meat of the budding nuts.

I pause with the list still incomplete, but enough uses have been enumerated, I trust, to make it comprehensible that the most drastic punishment that can be meted out to a South Sea village—one that is still resorted to in the Solomons and New Hebrides when a missionary is murdered or a labour schooner "cut out"—is to destroy its coconut trees.

Our Samoan laundryman was the source of considerable amusement during our stay in Pago Pago. Several of those indispensable functionaries came alongside on the day of the yacht's arrival, all bearing credentials of the highest order. One Maritomi, however, with a testimonial on the crested note paper of the Earl of Crawford affirming that the bearer had done the washing for his yacht, Valhalla, during her visit to Pago Pago, and had performed the work with neatness and dispatch, made the most favourable impression and was given a trial bundle. Among the things was a number of white duck uniforms, from the coats of which, in the hurry of arrival, the brass buttons had not been removed. The coats came back in time, neatly laundered, but unaccompanied either by the buttons or an explanation.

When Maritomi came round for the washing the following week he at first denied all knowledge of the missing buttons, asseverating that he was a "mitinary" boy and therefore could not steal even if he wanted to. This failing to make an impression, he finally admitted that he had the buttons, but claimed that buttons were his rightful perquisites, adding that he had kept the buttons of the Earl of Crawford every wash and had still been given a good character by His Lordship's steward. What was more, he said he was going to keep all of our buttons he could lay his hands on, and was going to feel very hurt if we, too, didn't give him a good character on our departure. We didn't think we were better than the Earl of Crawford, did we? That would be too absurd when the Valhalla was three times as big as the Lurline and had steam-power besides. Of course there was no upsetting a precedent established by so illustrious a personage as the Earl of Crawford, and therefore it was that all that our good laundryman threatened came to pass.

On the morning of our departure when he came off with farewell presents of tappa and war clubs, the grateful Maritomi showed his appreciation of the testimonial we had given him by appearing in one of the Commodore's white duck uniforms, with Lurline buttons drawing the jacket together across his brawny chest, while the delivery boy who accompanied him perspired in the unwonted grip of a dress coat of an officer of the Valhalla. We forgave Maritomi much for the delicacy of feeling he displayed in putting the Valhalla coat on the delivery boy.