And now, what was the explanation of the adventure of our shipmate with the beach comber? It seems that Ellyon insisted on his companion taking the lead on the ground that he would have an unobstructed vision, and there was much that was beautiful to behold. The man, who, by the way, was not overburdened with intelligence, entertained no fear and complied. They had proceeded only a short distance when an enormous snake crossed the path, and, in order to avoid colliding with him our man stopped suddenly, and Ellyon, having no warning, ran into him with such force that Ellyon was thrown to the ground. As our man made all speed for the shore it was the enraged Ellyon who let out the shriek. Hence we knew that the vile language he showered on us as we pulled away was prompted by the mishap. In the second dogwatch the day’s doings were the theme of conversation. What was Ellyon’s purpose? Did he intend to lead the men to their death and then endeavor with the help of the natives to capture the ship? Or was he merely socially inclined and anxious after so long a separation from his own people to entertain us for the pleasure it afforded him? Something, of course, hinged on his alleged production of rum. If his story was true, there was some reason to credit him with good intentions; if untrue, it was evident that he had designs upon our lives and not upon our property, for we hadn’t any property. His story as to the rum was discredited by one of the men, who declared that all vegetation on the island was very rank, and that the rum made from cane which grew rankly was of poor quality. “That settles it,” said one of the old hands, who was something of a wit, “Ellyon never had any decent rum in his life, and this rank stuff he makes is as good as any he ever had. What he calls good rum we sailors would call slops. Judge the old renegade by himself. I don’t believe he meant no harm. The trouble is he got knocked down, and that made him angry.” Ohoo, who had been a listener, now observed, “Me no go in boat ’cause fear trouble. Cap’n tell o’ Kanaka killed and eat on island long ’go. That Kanaka man my uncle. Beach comber, he bad man. Good luck for crew get back. Ship good ’nough for Ohoo.” As we broke up, Kreelman came to me and asked pleasantly, “How did you know, Fancy Chest, that we were goin’ to stop at the Marquesas?” “I guessed it from what Ohoo told me.” “What did he tell you?” I felt like saying that an old sailor may be very much like an old woman. However, I graciously told him of the inference I drew from Ohoo’s remarks. “Fancy Chest,” said Kreelman, “if you live long enough you’ll be a boat-steerer or a lawyer, I don’t know which.” CHAPTER VIII THE PRIZE WHALE AND THE RESCUED BOAT