Thus I found myself at the head of a very thriving community. Our active and open-air life kept us in good health, and the little diversions which we mingled with our work--shooting and fishing, quoits and skittles and Aunt Sally, performed with rough things of our own making--these helped to keep us cheerful, and we had no troubles beyond the storms and cyclones, no savages appearing to molest us, and Old Smoker never showing more than a light crown of vapour, and sometimes not even that. Billy and I lived alone in our hut, with Little John, and we were, I am sure, happier than we were before the men came, for we had more to think about and a great deal more to do. Billy said once that I was now a king indeed, and asked whether I wouldn't like a crown, though it would be made of leaves, there being no metal to be had. I told him that I was quite content as I was, and besides, if I was to be a king I must have a title, and I thought Harry must be an ill-starred name, for Harry the First was the king that never smiled again, and Harry the last (that is, the Eighth) was not a very estimable character; and then Billy must needs hear all I remembered about those monarchs, and when I spoke of the six wives he looked very serious, and remained very quiet and thoughtful for a long time. I asked him what he was thinking about, and he said, "Why, a king ain't much good without a queen, and it's no good being Harry the First (which you would be, this being a new kingdom) if there ain't no chance of Harry the Second, or perhaps Billy the First, to come after. But there, you wouldn't like a wife same as my mother-in-law, so it's all one." [1] Probably from the depredations of the _phasma_, or spectre insect, a deadly foe to cocoa-nuts.--H.S. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND OF OUR DEPARTURE FROM PALM TREE ISLAND; OF THOSE WHO WON THROUGH, AND OF THOSE WHO FELL BY THE WAY For several days after this conversation I observed that Billy was not near so cheerful as he was wont to be, and when I spoke to him about it, and asked what ailed him, he returned me only evasive answers. One night when we were abed, but not asleep, he sighed so often and so heavily that I said I would and must know what was the matter, and then he surprised me beyond measure by saying, in a sort of mumble, "I'm only thinking of my little girl." I thought his wits were wandering, but I asked him, "What little girl?" and he said, "Her name's Elizabeth Jane." I asked him what on earth he meant, and then, unbosoming himself, he told me that Clums' mention of _his_ little girl, and our talk about Henry the Eighth's wives, had set him thinking of a little girl he used to play with at home, when his own mother was alive--a neighbour's child, who used to come into the smithy at all hours, and whom his father used to call "Billy's little sweetheart."