The missionary was a dear, good old chap, as simple and confiding as a child, and it was very difficult to understand how such a cute nation as America could have produced such a man. I do not know to what brand of fancy religion he belonged, but he was not Church of England or Roman Catholic. Anyhow, he was a good man, and we respected him accordingly. Now in a bit of a blow we had had a few days before we had been somewhat damaged, and seeing that the lagoon in which we were anchored was a very safe one, and the natives fairly civil, our skipper determined to remain a few days to complete the necessary repairs. So we landed a lot of stores, and started trading for bêche-de-mer, which animal the natives caught in large quantities. During our trading I made the acquaintance of the head devil dodger of the pagan crowd, and found him to be not half a bad old fellow. He was, naturally, rather bitter at the desertion of the half of his parishioners, and gave me to understand that his tithes had so decreased that he could barely make a living, and that the island was not, in his opinion, large enough to support two rival churches. So, judging I was a knowledgeable man, he asked my advice on this point. He also requested my active assistance to aid him in his endeavours to regain his rightful emoluments and status. His first proposal was that he should kill his rival sky-pilot; but that I forbade, and impressed on him the fact that if he hurt the missionary a ship of war would quickly come and blow him and his island galley west. He next proposed that I, to show my friendship, should oblige him so far as to kill the missionary for him. This proposition was, of course, decidedly negatived. Then he suggested that I should at least shoot the boss convert, the next cause of my old friend's trouble. Again I had to refuse, and explained to him that the quarrel was not mine, and that the white man's God only allowed us to kill one another in pukka (war). Then he requested the loan of my rifle to do the deed with himself; but I opened the breech and let him look down the barrel, explaining to him that only a Christian could use that weapon, as a heathen, not possessing the spirit of the true faith, might receive damage from the breech. He shook his head and intimated that it was a weary, weary world and full of disappointments. But an old flint-lock musket among the trade goods catching his eye, he begged to examine it, and seeing it had no opening at the breech he at once said that it was the very weapon he had dreamed of with which to right his wrongs. Would I give it him?