which I intended to show to my young friends and to preserve as mementos or trophies. “Now, boys,” said Ellyon, “Come up on the island and let me show you round. There’s no spot on the earth any finer than this. There’s fruit of all kinds and plenty of shady places where you can lay down and rest.” We all wanted to go, but there was no response, not even a word of thanks on our part. Most of us suspected treachery. We had no firearms and, in case of ambush, we would be defenceless. On first seeing Ellyon, the day before, and listening to his babbling while the trading was going on, I would have said that it was impossible for so repulsive a creature to be so polite as he now was. “Come, boys, come,” he repeated, “I don’t suppose you’ve had shore leave before on this voyage, and now make the most of it. Where are you bound to, ‘Offshore Ground’ or ‘Coast of Japan’ before you go to the Arctic? I take it you’re goin’ to the Arctic. There’s nothin’ like terra cotta for a man whose been treadin’ wood at sea for eight or ten months. We gentlemen, who live in these Pacific Ocean islands in order to spread civilization, are only too glad to entertain our guests from the homeland. Come along to my lodge up on the high land.” The captain had said that Ellyon had had some advantages, but the reference to terra cotta drew a smile from one at least of the crew. I think he saw it, for his expression changed. Then in a moment he was pleasant again, and insistent that we should accept his hospitality. It was now time for our good manners, so we thanked him cordially and pleaded our excuses. One man had not walked any distance for so long that he had almost forgotten the use of his limbs; another preferred to rest by the sea and simply enjoy the beautiful prospect; a third was so exhausted from rowing that he was incapable of further effort, and so on. The beach comber now played his last card. “Shipmates,” he declared, “there’s a lot of rum up in my place. I can’t bring it down here, but, if you want to go up there with me, you shall have all you want of it.” Most of the men became greatly interested. No grog had been served during the voyage, and the very word “rum” had a pleasant sound. “You see, shipmates,” the beach comber continued, “you folks at home don’t know what rum is. The rum you drink is made from molasses—that is, made second-hand. Did you ever hear of Jamaica rum, worth its weight in gold—the smartest drink on the other side of land that ever tickled the palate? And why, shipmates? Made from the cane first-hand, and not from molasses, second-hand. And how is it on this side of land? Right here on this lovely island is the finest rum that is made on any island in the Pacific. From what? The sugar cane. By whom? Peter Ellyon. I’ve got a still that beats the Dutch. Now come along with me and enjoy yourselves.”