After my friends had left me I gave one last longing look at the Cliff House, the scene of many happy hours, and wended my way to the stateroom which I was to occupy for the next four weeks. I loathe ocean travel and did not look forward to my trip with much pleasure. The company came to me after a bit and we passed the afternoon planning what we would do to while away the hours of the voyage.

Louis Payne had ingratiated himself with a confiding young lady who was on her way to Honolulu to join her fiancee. Before 6 p. m. it looked bad for the waiting-to-be-bridegroom. Payne was reading her sonnets which evidently appealed to her. Neil O'Brien, dear old Neil, wrote a poem suggestive of the flirtation. Aside from this diversion the first few days were a trifle monotonous after the strenuous events of the preceding five weeks. But then came a splendid contrast.

As we entered Honolulu harbor a new colored water seemed to greet us. A softer sky than I had ever seen hung over the little picturesque city. The sea resembled a huge flat sapphire. To the right was a range of devastated mountains, the remnants of pre-historic days. The little city is a veritable paradise and as one rides into the country it seems to grow more and more beautiful.

We rode seven miles to the summit of Mt. Pali (meaning precipice). We could see about and down for miles. It was a most uncanny sight. The Brocken scene in Faust and Yellowstone Park pale into insignificance by comparison. Relics of volcanoes, thousands and thousands of years old, cliffs, mountains of rocks, precipices and barren tracts of land meet you on every side. This spot is quite interesting in a historical way. For here it was that King Kamehameha came over from Oahu and conquered the Hawaiians. Then he depopulated the island.

He landed at the entrance to the harbor and drove the natives on and on until they reached Mt. Pali. Rather than surrender or through fear they jumped into the horrible abyss.

He must have been some fighter.

We remained at Honolulu about sixteen hours, rode all about the town and dined at the Sans Souci, a delightful little place about four miles out. Before dining we enjoyed a bath in the sea. The temperature of the water ranges all the year round from seventy-five to eighty. We also enjoyed shooting the rapids, a most fascinating sport. You wade and swim out against the tide for five hundred yards. A stalwart native pushes your tiny canoe in front of him. When you arrive at a given point you get into the canoe, head toward the shore and the terrific current hurls you back to the beach. It is exciting. Very often you are pitched into the sea but you don't mind as the water is shallow and you are in your bathing suit.

When I look back on Honolulu after all these years I know it is one of the most glorious spots on earth; but had I penned these lines on the ground I'm afraid I'd have been less complimentary. Not that the harbor and landscape were not wondrous in their beauty in every direction as far as one could see, but—before we ever reached our hotel we encountered myriads of mosquitoes, all of which pests seemed to be bent on the destruction of my left eye! In no time it was swollen tight shut.

A native doctor attended me, pouring something suggesting vitriol—into the wrong eye!

"Great Scott!" I yelled. "There goes my good eye. Why didn't you put it in the bad eye? You know that's gone for good anyway."

The Hawaiian physician only smiled, charged me ten dollars and went his way after assuring me that I'd be "all right in no time." Before I did recover Arthur Hoops came along. "Governor," said he, "why don't you write about this beautiful place in your new book?"

"How can I write about a place when I can't see?" I queried indignantly.

It's great to leave Honolulu. The whole city bids you goodby. We were covered with flowers when we reached the deck of our ship the next day and as we backed out of the dock their band played Aloha, their goodby song.

Seven days later, July 10, to be exact, land appeared on the horizon which the skipper informed us was Apia, Samoa. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I was awakened from my slumbers to catch a view of the coveted land. My attention was divided contemplating the horizon and looking back at the wake of the steamer. As we approached the entrance to the harbor we were reminded very much of Honolulu. Samoa however, is protected on each side by two peninsulas projecting far out into the sea.

As one approaches land one notices the ground is covered with much vegetation. Cocoanut trees are in abundance. Tiny specks appear as one draws nearer. These soon develop into delightful little huts and homes of modern architecture, occupied by consuls and men with diplomatic positions. This harbor has a history.

Once it was the scene of a tremendous hurricane which caught several ships at anchor in the bay and blew them on the rocks. One English ship perished with all on board as she vainly endeavored to turn her bow towards the storm. The crew went down to Davy Jones's locker with the ship's band playing Rule, Britannia! On the rocks we saw a monument to the lost of this catastrophe in the shape of a wrecked German man-of-war.

As we approached the shore swarms of natives came rowing out to meet us. What splendid specimens of manhood they were! Perfectly formed they were apparently quite unconscious of their power and as gentle as they were strong. I noticed one strapping fellow standing in the bow of his boat beckoning me to join him. As the sun shone upon his copper colored skin he seemed a monarch even in his semi-nudity and in barbaric splendor he suggested Othello. With the aid of two assistants Othello soon landed us on the sands of sunny Samoa. Here we were at once surrounded by a swarm of natives who persuaded us to purchase fans, beads, rings, wooden canoes, corals, shells and a score of other things in which the island abounds. These articles are secured with the least possible labor for the true Samoan considers it infra dig to labor long and is firmly convinced that it is a very poor world that won't support one race of gentlemen.

I am sorry to say the women do not appeal to one as much as the men. They are small of stature and run to fat. They take but little time in arranging their toilet for the day and seldom keep their men friends waiting when asked to a party or a ball, their raiment consisting mostly of beads!

We spent but little time among the natives as we were anxious to visit the home of Robert Louis Stevenson. We finally succeeded in procuring a conveyance, a small cart and pony, and were soon on our way to his home. After two miles the road turned into a smaller one and there a sign board, cleanly white-washed, told us in the Samoan tongue that we were nearing the abode of the great romancer. The sign, translated, told all travellers that the road was built by the Samoans as a monument to their beloved friend. At the end of the road we came upon a locked gate. We vaulted over and in a few minutes we came upon a house, flat, but of rather huge dimensions.

As we approached the veranda a lady, of small stature, dressed in a Mother Hubbard, in bare feet, came graciously forward to meet us. In a moment I recognized her. Her face was keen and intelligent and once must have been beautiful. She was pale, thoughtful, dignified and sad. Hers was the right kind of face! It stamped her as the wife of the man who has made the world marvel at his wondrous imagination. We made ourselves known and were received most hospitably. She seemed glad to welcome Anglo-Saxons.

I told her the news of McKinley's nomination and the sad tidings of the death of Kate Field, her life-long friend.

She prepared a luncheon for us (which did not quite suit my fancy, but I was too polite to refuse it). It was some kind of a mushy mixture, requiring the use of a mortar and pestle, which the natives manipulate quite skillfully. It consisted of several ingredients, one of which I thought was——never mind! That was soon over, thank the Lord, and Mrs. Stevenson showed us the house. We reveled in R. L.'s study which was filled with many original prints, books, emblems and gifts of every description.

In this room he passed away one afternoon while giving a reception to the natives who loved him dearly. While bestowing his hospitality he complained of a pain in his side and, excusing himself to his guests, started for his chamber. His wife, noticing his deathly pallor, rushed to his assistance. (Mrs. Stevenson was explicit in her description.) "Give them my compliments," he said to her as she half carried him toward his bedroom. "Tell them I'm a trifle ill, but we will all be together a week from to-night." And he waved an adieu and tried to hide the pain that racked his body. "It's nothing," he kept repeating to his wife, "it will soon pass away." But just as he entered his bedroom words failed him; he could only smile, grasp her hand and sink back onto the bed.

Thus passed the soul of one of the dearest men and one of the most brilliant. He suffered but he uttered no complaint. He had a kindly word even for savages. Now his body lies at the top of a huge mountain and if you look steadily you can almost outline the form as if it were lying on some great catafalque. It is most difficult of access; it took the natives two days and nights to place him on his bed of flowers. But to this day many of the sturdier ones make the toilsome climb and pay homage to the man they call their "dear master."

There alone he lies, as far as possible away from this plaything called earth. Huge trees stand like silent sentinels sheltering him from wind and rain. His companions are the little birds who sing his praises through all the hours of the day and night. Above the moon and stars dance with joy and I can fairly hear the jolly old moon say, "Bobby, we've got you at last!" And each star is whispering as it twinkles along, "Bobby has come, Bobby has come!"

Rest on, Robert, until eternity has grown gray. If we worshipped you down here, what must they be doing for you now? The world is jealous. We have only your memory. They have your soul.

Tears streamed down my face as I bade goodby to Mrs. Stevenson. It was all very sad, but I wouldn't have missed it for the crown the Bourbons lost.

By midnight we were back on board and off to Auckland. We arrived seven days later after a most perilous journey. I have never seen such storms as we encountered. The Pacific can pick up more trouble than two Atlantic oceans. During the entire seven days we were thrown from one side of the ship to the other with our trunks, hat boxes and valises. We finally had to tie them down. It took two "ordinary" seamen to open a handbag!

Captain Van Otterendorf, who apparently had taken a fancy to me, one day after we were compelled to heave to and lie in the trough of the sea, called me to his chart room.

"My tear Goodvin," he said, "ve are in a most precarious position. Ve haf no more coal in de bunkers and ve are quietly drifting on to de rocks vich are only about two hundred miles to de Vest. I vish ve were farder avay from de land." I said, "I don't." He said, "Vell, I am now burning de live stock for fuel and we vill put out de fires in about an hour and hoist de mainsail." "Why didn't you do this two days ago and save the coal?" I asked. "I didn't know how much ve started away from Samoa vith until the purser yust told me," he replied. I looked at him. "What do you tell me all this for? Don't you think I am frightened enough without this information?" He replied, "Vell, I like you. No one yet knows vat vill take place on de ocean and ve can only hope for de best."

He pulled out a huge bottle of Scotch whiskey from somewhere and I drank a goblet and in about an hour I didn't care whether the ship sank or not. Luckily the next day the storm abated. We arrived at harbor of Sydney.

Chapter LIII