"We are Americans of Dutch birth. A few months ago we made a bet at the Holland Club in San Francisco that we would sail from Honolulu in an open boat via the Cook Islands to Tahiti and back to Honolulu. The wager is for twenty-five thousand dollars. Would you, my dear sir, kindly give me a certificate that we have been here in accordance with the terms of our bet? Also, we should like to lay in a supply of fresh water, canned goods, and fresh fruit." The resident yawned, looked us over with a watery eye and replied: "Well, a man must be a hell of a fool to go in for that kind of sport." "Sure," Kircheiss said politely, "but, just the same, we should like to have the certificate. Won't you give it to us or tell us who will?" "Oh, to hell with you, don't bother me. I've just had dinner and want to take my nap." Even his British mistrust, with which he first regarded us, subsided into the indescribable something that comes over a white man who yields to the soft enervation of the tropics. He now looked at us merely as mad fellows who wanted him to do something too crazy to merit his consideration. "Any news from the bloody war?" he asked. "Why are they so stupid as to carry on with this fighting business? In the end, it will only help these yellow races." He continued like this and spoke highly of the Germans. Naturally, we did not express any pro-German sentiments. "We simply must get this old bird to give us that certificate," I said to my comrade in Low German, pretending that it was Dutch. "Yes," he replied in the same dialect, "it may come in mighty useful later on." The resident, as he told us, had served in the Boer War, and should have known better, but he took our Plattdeutsch for the language of Holland. Presently he scribbled a note saying that we had called on him in the course of our sporting cruise. "Any ships expected in port soon?" Kircheiss asked quite casually. "How in hell do I know?" the resident responded wearily. "Everything goes to the bloody war, and we don't see anything around here but these Kanakas." He continued in this strain and cursed his boredom on the island. The resident was still rambling on in his lazy monotone when along came a man who wore a cassock and had a beard down to his waist. He was a French missionary priest who was overjoyed when we saluted him with a few words of French. The resident and an English trader were the only two white men on the island besides himself, and neither talked any French. "_Allons, allons_," he shouted, "by Joe, boys, you must pay me a visit." And straightway he seized our arms and took us over to his mission house. There he poured out glasses of excellent wine. "You are Americans," he cried, "you fight for la France? You are Hollanders? Ah, it is too bad that your country is not in the war with France. But I can see that you love la belle France."