“Poor Panu-Mafili is only a boy. His father, you know, was the late king Malea-Toa or ‘Laupepe,’ a ‘sheet of paper,’ as the natives called him, because he was intellectual. Panu begged to be allowed to go away and study,” she said, “but our great governments need him as a big piece in the political chess game.” “More aptly a pawn,” Phil corrected. Alice was gazing wistfully seaward. “Out there,” she said after a moment’s silence, “is a sail. It’s probably the ‘Talofa,’ a schooner from the Fiji. The natives say ‘Bully’ Scott and the ‘Talofa’ scent out wars in the South Seas and arrive just in time to sell a shipload of rifles.” The midshipmen saw the tops of a “sail” far out on the horizon. “If Kataafa needs guns to defy the chief justice, there they are,” she added. “Isn’t it against the law to sell guns to the natives?” Sydney asked. Alice regarded him with high disdain. “‘Bully’ Scott knows no law nor nationality,” she replied. “To give your nationality in Kapua is a disadvantage, because then your consul interferes with your business. When you’re trading in ‘blacks’ and guns, it’s best to deprive yourself of the luxury of a country. ‘Bully’ Scott is from the world.” “How do you know that is the ‘Talofa’?” Phil asked incredulously, but all the same greatly interested. “I don’t know,” she answered gayly as she led the way toward home; “but the ‘Talofa’ is a schooner, and the natives believe she will come. And that’s a schooner.” Her logic was not convincing to the midshipmen, but then they had not lived three years in Kapua. Schooners were not frequent visitors at Ukula. CHAPTER III PLOTTING FOR POWER The Herzovinian consul sat upon his wide verandah gazing out upon the quiet bay of Ukula. His usually serene face wore a troubled look. Count Rosen paced the porch restlessly. His well-knit figure was becomingly clad in a military khaki riding suit, and he held a heavy rhinoceros hide whip in his hand. Consul Carlson was over fifty. Rosen was not over thirty, and appeared even younger. Count Rosen was talking while Mr. Carlson listened with an unusual air of deference. “When Kataafa was hurried here from Malut, the island of his exile, our foreign office expected you to have paved the way to make him king.” The speaker struck a picturesque stand in front of the consul’s chair. “Instead you have been fraternizing with these other consuls. The chief justice has you under his thumb. Is that the way to bring on a crisis?” The Herzovinian consul swallowed a lump in his throat. It was hard to be taken to task by such a young man. “Count Rosen,” he answered, a sudden spark of resentment coming into his small eyes, “if I have displeased the foreign office, I can resign.”