It came to
him curiously that it was his destiny ever to stand on this high place,
looking down on unending hordes of black trouble that required control,
bullying, and cajolery. But while he glanced carelessly over them, he
was keenly taking stock. The new men were all armed with modern rifles.
Ah, he had thought so. There were fifteen of them, undoubtedly the Lunga
runaways. In addition, a dozen old Sniders were in the hands of the
original crowd. The rest were armed with spears, clubs, bows and arrows,
and long-handled tomahawks. Beyond, drawn up on the beach, he could see
the big war-canoes, with high and fantastically carved bows and sterns,
ornamented with scrolls and bands of white cowrie shells. These were the
men who had killed his trader, Oscar, at Ugi.
"What name you walk about this place?" he demanded.
At the same time he stole a glance seaward to where the
_Flibberty-Gibbet_ reflected herself in the glassy calm of the sea. Not
a soul was visible under her awnings, and he saw the whale-boat was
missing from alongside. The Tahitians had evidently gone shooting fish
up the Balesuna. He was all alone in his high place above this trouble,
while his world slumbered peacefully under the breathless tropic noon.
Nobody replied, and he repeated his demand, more of mastery in his voice
this time, and a hint of growing anger.
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