Billy took the hint. More beer came. Then the trader warmed up slightly and talked. Billy didn’t know exactly what was being said. No fortune teller had ever warned him that he ought to study German. The trader pointed here and there, and Billy twisted his head about to see. Then he began to realize that the German was talking of directions. Which way did Billy want to travel? Billy took a chance and poked his finger in the same direction that his nose happened to be. The trader agreed that it was a desirable choice and put out his hand, palm up. The sign language had never seemed so eloquent to Billy before. That was how Billy came to be landed on the beach some two hundred miles from Langar. The bay was pretty and the trader had given him to understand that a missionary lived there. But alone on the beach Billy couldn’t see anything but niggers. They swarmed about him, grinned, looked him over curiously, fingered his clothes, felt of him, and chattered. He wished heartily that he was back in New York explaining to the judge just how it happened. The trader was already standing out to sea. The natives half carried, half dragged the squatty little man with the dapper manner, alias Billy Rand, up the beach and through the bushes until they came to a cleared space where there were grass houses and women cooking. “Just in time for dinner!” he said to himself, and nearly fainted. Then a man came to the door of one of the grass houses. He was a comparatively young man, fine looking--Billy thought--and not at all like the beachcombers, missionaries and Germans with which Billy had already become acquainted. And Billy could not imagine that any one other than those people--beachcombers, missionaries and Germans--would hide themselves away in such outlandish places unless for “confidential” reasons. “Who are you?” the man asked. It seemed to Billy that there was something pryingly suspicious in the question. Rapidly he hastened to assure this stranger: “It’s all right. I came along for quiet and rest too. I know just how you feel when a stranger comes along your trail. Now I’ve--” “I don’t know what you mean,” said the other, looking puzzled. Billy noticed that he had brown eyes that looked almost sad. “I’m in the same fix as you,” Billy explained vaguely. “A missionary?” the man asked. “Me a what!” And Billy followed it up with a few remarks that showed he was far from having been trained as a missionary. The man looked relieved, though he did say quietly: “You see, I’m a missionary. From what you said I judged that you, too--well, I want neither a rival nor an assistant--but,” he added quickly, “anybody else is welcome.” Billy cast a speculative eye over the crowd of natives ringed about him. “Say,” he confessed frankly, “I was awfully glad to see you. These fellows had me scared stiff.” The missionary laughed. “They can’t imagine any one being afraid of them.” “Ain’t they got no lookin’ glasses?” Billy demanded.