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- Author: Jack London
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Divers articles were traced indubitably to the house-boys, each of whom steadfastly proclaimed his own innocence and cast doubts on his fellows. The boy with the billiard ball said that he had never seen it in his life before, and hazarded the suggestion that it had got into his box through some mysterious and occultly evil agency. So far as he was concerned it might have dropped down from heaven for all he knew how it got there. To the cooks and boats’-crews of every vessel that had dropped anchor off Berande in the past several years were ascribed the arrival of scores of the stolen articles and of the major portion of the ammunition. There was no tracing the truth in any of it, though it was without doubt that the unidentified weapons and unfamiliar cartridges had come ashore off visiting craft.
“Look at it,” Sheldon said to Joan. “We’ve been sleeping over a volcano. They ought to be whipped—”
“No whip me,” Gogoomy cried out from below. “Father belong me big fella chief. Me whip, too much trouble along you, close up, my word.”
“What name you fella Gogoomy!” Sheldon shouted. “I knock seven bells out of you. Here, you Kwaque, put ‘m irons along that fella Gogoomy.”
Kwaque, a strapping gang-boss, plucked Gogoomy from out of his following, and, helped by the other gang-bosses; twisted his arms behind him and snapped on the heavy handcuffs.
“Me finish along you, close up, you die altogether,” Gogoomy, with wrath-distorted face, threatened the boss-boy.
“Please, no whipping,” Joan said in a low voice. “If whipping IS necessary, send them to Tulagi and let the Government do it. Give them their choice between a fine or an official whipping.”
Sheldon nodded and stood up, facing the blacks.
“Manonmie!” he called.
Manonmie stood forth and waited.
“You fella boy bad fella too much,” Sheldon charged. “You steal ‘m plenty. You steal ‘m one fella towel, one fella cane-knife, two-ten fella cartridge. My word, plenty bad fella steal ‘m you. Me cross along you too much. S’pose you like ‘m, me take ‘m one fella pound along you in big book. S’pose you no like ‘m me take ‘m one fella pound, then me send you fella along Tulagi catch ‘m one strong fella government whipping. Plenty New Georgia boys, plenty Ysabel boys stop along jail along Tulagi. Them fella no like Malaita boys little bit. My word, they give ‘m you strong fella whipping. What you say?”
“You take ‘m one fella pound along me,” was the answer.
And Manonmie, patently relieved, stepped back, while Sheldon entered the fine in the plantation labour journal.
Boy after boy, he called the offenders out and gave them their choice; and, boy by boy, each one elected to pay the fine imposed. Some fines were as low as several shillings; while in the more serious cases, such as thefts of guns and ammunition, the fines were correspondingly heavy.
Gogoomy and his five tribesmen were fined three pounds each, and at Gogoomy’s guttural command they refused to pay.
“S’pose you go along Tulagi,” Sheldon warned him, “you catch ‘m strong fella whipping and you stop along jail three fella year. Mr. Burnett, he look ‘m along Winchester, look ‘m along cartridge, look ‘m along revolver, look ‘m along black powder, look ‘m along dynamite—my word, he cross too much, he give you three fella year along jail. S’pose you no like ‘m pay three fella pound you stop along jail. Savvee?”
Gogoomy wavered.
“It’s true—that’s what Burnett would give them,” Sheldon said in an aside to Joan.
“You take ‘m three fella pound along me,” Gogoomy muttered, at the same time scowling his hatred at Sheldon, and transferring half the scowl to Joan and Kwaque. “Me finish along you, you catch ‘m big fella trouble, my word. Father belong me big fella chief along Port Adams.”
“That will do,” Sheldon warned him. “You shut mouth belong you.”
“Me no fright,” the son of a chief retorted, by his insolence increasing his stature in the eyes of his fellows.
“Lock him up for to-night,” Sheldon said to Kwaque. “Sun he come up put ‘m that fella and five fella belong him along grass-cutting. Savvee?”
Kwaque grinned.
“Me savvee,” he said. “Cut ‘m grass, ngari-ngari {4} stop ‘m along grass. My word!”
“There will be trouble with Gogoomy yet,” Sheldon said to Joan, as the boss-boys marshalled their gangs and led them away to their work. “Keep an eye on him. Be careful when you are riding alone on the plantation. The loss of those Winchesters and all that ammunition has hit him harder than your cuffing did. He is dead-ripe for mischief.”
“I wonder what has become of Tudor. It’s two months since he disappeared into the bush, and not a word of him after he left Binu.”
Joan Lackland was sitting astride her horse by the bank of the Balesuna where the sweet corn had been planted, and Sheldon, who had come across from the house on foot, was leaning against her horse’s shoulder.
“Yes, it is along time for no news to have trickled down,” he answered, watching her keenly from under his hat-brim and wondering as to the measure of her anxiety for the adventurous gold-hunter; “but Tudor will come out all right. He did a thing at the start that I wouldn’t have given him or any other man credit for— persuaded Binu Charley to go along with him. I’ll wager no other Binu nigger has ever gone so far into the bush unless to be kai-kai’d. As for Tudor—”
“Look! look!” Joan cried in a low voice, pointing across the narrow stream to a slack eddy where a huge crocodile drifted like a log awash. “My! I wish I had my rifle.”
The crocodile, leaving scarcely a ripple behind, sank down and disappeared.
“A Binu man was in early this morning—for medicine,” Sheldon remarked. “It may have been that very brute that was responsible. A dozen of the Binu women were out, and the foremost one stepped right on a big crocodile. It was by the edge of the water, and he tumbled her over and got her by the leg. All the other women got hold of her and pulled. And in the tug of war she lost her leg, below the knee, he said. I gave him a stock of antiseptics. She’ll pull through, I fancy.”
“Ugh—the filthy beasts,” Joan gulped shudderingly. “I hate them! I hate them!”
“And yet you go diving among sharks,” Sheldon chided.
“They’re only fish-sharks. And as long as there are plenty of fish there is no danger. It is only when they’re famished that they’re liable to take a bite.”
Sheldon shuddered inwardly at the swift vision that arose of the dainty flesh of her in a shark’s many-toothed maw.
“I wish you wouldn’t, just the same,” he said slowly. “You acknowledge there is a risk.”
“But that’s half the fun of it,” she cried.
A trite platitude about his not caring to lose her was on his lips, but he refrained from uttering it. Another conclusion he had arrived at was that she was not to be nagged. Continual, or even occasional, reminders of his feeling for her would constitute a tactical error of no mean dimensions.
“Some for the book of verse, some for the simple life, and some for the shark’s belly,” he laughed grimly, then added: “Just the same, I wish I could swim as well as you. Maybe it would beget confidence such as you have.”
“Do you know, I think it would be nice to be married to a man such as you seem to be becoming,” she remarked, with one of her abrupt changes that always astounded him. “I should think you could be trained into a very good husband—you know, not one of the domineering kind, but one who considered his wife was just as much an individual as himself and just as much a free agent. Really, you know, I think you are improving.”
She laughed and rode away, leaving him greatly cast down. If he had thought there had been one bit of coyness in her words, one feminine flutter, one womanly attempt at deliberate lure and encouragement, he would have been elated. But he knew absolutely that it was the boy, and not the woman, who had so daringly spoken.
Joan rode on among the avenues of young cocoanut-palms, saw a hornbill, followed it in its erratic flights to the high forest on the edge of the plantation, heard the cooing of wild pigeons and located them in the deeper woods, followed the fresh trail of a wild pig for a distance, circled back, and took the narrow path for the bungalow that ran through twenty acres of uncleared cane. The grass was waist-high and higher, and as she rode along she remembered that Gogoomy was one of a gang of boys that had been detailed to the grass-cutting. She came to where they had been at work, but saw no signs of them. Her unshod horse made no sound on the soft, sandy footing, and a little further on she heard voices proceeding from out of the grass. She reined in and listened. It was Gogoomy talking, and as she listened she gripped her bridle-rein tightly and a wave of anger passed over her.
“Dog he stop ‘m along house, night-time he walk about,” Gogoomy was saying, perforce in beche-de-mer English, because he was talking to others beside his own tribesmen. “You fella boy catch ‘m one fella pig, put ‘m kai-kai belong him along big fella fish-hook. S’pose dog he walk about catch ‘m kai-kai, you fella boy catch ‘m dog allee same one shark. Dog he finish close up. Big fella marster sleep along big fella house. White Mary sleep along pickaninny house. One fella Adamu he stop along outside pickaninny house. You fella boy finish ‘m dog, finish ‘m Adamu, finish ‘m big fella marster, finish ‘m White Mary, finish ‘em altogether. Plenty musket he stop, plenty powder, plenty tomahawk, plenty knife-fee, plenty porpoise teeth, plenty tobacco, plenty calico—my word, too much plenty everything we take ‘m along whale-boat, washee {5} like hell, sun he come up we long way too much.”
“Me catch ‘m pig sun he go down,” spoke up one whose thin falsetto voice Joan recognized as belonging to Cosse, one of Gogoomy’s tribesmen.
“Me catch ‘m dog,” said another.
“And me catch ‘m white fella Mary,” Gogoomy cried triumphantly. “Me catch ‘m Kwaque he die along him damn quick.”
This much Joan heard of the plan to murder, and then her rising wrath proved too much for her discretion. She spurred her horse into the grass, crying, -
“What name you fella boy, eh? What name?”
They arose, scrambling and scattering, and to her surprise she saw there were a dozen of them. As she looked in their glowering faces and noted the heavy, two-foot, hacking cane-knives in their hands, she became suddenly aware of the rashness of her act. If only she had had her revolver or a rifle, all would have been well. But she had carelessly ventured out unarmed, and she followed the glance of Gogoomy to her waist and saw the pleased flash in his eyes as he perceived the absence of the dreadful man-killing revolver.
The first article in the Solomon Islands code for white men was never to show fear before a native, and Joan tried to carry off the situation in cavalier fashion.
“Too much talk along you fella boy,” she said severely. “Too much talk, too little work. Savvee?”
Gogoomy made no reply, but, apparently
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