H. A. Lamb

“ I placed my rifle against a bamboo and kneeled, plunging head and arms into the delightful pool. Ten years of the South Sea Islands should have taught me better. But then every one forgets, once in a while.
I sat by the stream, allowing the sun to dry the moisture on my head and musing on the splendid handiwork of the Lord which fringed me in. It might have been several moments before I swung around, at a cry from the girl.
Mary was, perhaps, a hundred yards away. And she was struggling with Johnny Gorai. The wrinkled face of the islander was alight with evil. ”

“ We gave Johnny Gorai a burial of sorts and had dinner. Neither of us ate much. I have seen many men, white and black, go to their last account. But I never had to bury an islander before.
“Mary’s friends,” I told him, “are apparently not going to kill us now. But I do not think they have any love for us. With Johnny Gorai lost, we have as much chance of talking to Mary and getting information from her, as a wild pig of reading the Gospel. ”

“ That is often the way when two white men are isolated for a long time. I gave up trying to get the boy back to the river and the dugouts. And he treated me as if I were no better than Johnny Gorai.
It was becoming more and more clear to me that the boy was not as interested in the Quiros city as he pretended to be. Our daily marches became shorter. He walked with Mary, who rejoined us in excellent spirits the next day. I followed in the rear.
The boy was trying to make Mary understand him. For hours they would converse in the sign language, which is the same the world over. ”