One extremely peculiar trait in the character of the natives of British New Guinea is their dislike to inquisitiveness. You can implore a native to tell you his name, and even offer him coin to pay him for that information, but it has no effect. He {27} will tell you some name, if you press him hard enough, but it won’t be his, as you will discover if you try to find him again. As an instance of this peculiarity, Mr. Norman Hardy was particularly struck by a canoe he saw lying on the sand in the main street of Elevera, and seeing a native standing by, he asked him if the canoe belonged to him, as he would like to buy it. The native smiled blandly and shook his head. “Don’t you know whose it is?” asked Mr. Hardy. “Don’t know; man over there, p’r’aps,” said the native. “What’s his name?” Mr. Hardy pursued. “No name.” The native shook his bushy head. “Well, show me which is the hut he lives in.” At this question the man began to fidget, and then, glancing carelessly at the row of huts, all as like each other as peas, he swept his hand past the whole lot and said: “That one.” And that was all the information concerning the name and possessor of the canoe that Mr. Hardy obtained. Subsequently he learned that the owner of it was the very man he had been questioning. The same kind of reticence has been found by {28} all travellers who have been anxious to find out the ways, the customs, and secret rites of the natives; but, luckily, now and then a man who will talk has been found, and then, by using the knowledge gained from him and showing the others that you know a certain amount about the matter, it is possible to get a fund of information; though it is always necessary to corroborate everything you hear, as the art of lying has been brought to a perfect science in these islands—probably by the march of civilisation and the example the natives have been set by the traders—nearly all natives become liars when they are civilised.