So he stood waist-deep in the grass and
looked regretfully across the rolling savannah and the soft-swelling
foothills to the Lion's Head, a massive peak of rock that upreared into
the azure from the midmost centre of Guadalcanar, a landmark used for
bearings by every coasting mariner, a mountain as yet untrod by the foot
of a white man.
That night, after dinner, Sheldon and Joan were playing billiards, when
Satan barked in the compound, and Lalaperu, sent to see, brought back a
tired and travel-stained native, who wanted to talk with the "big fella
white marster." It was only the man's insistence that procured him
admittance at such an hour. Sheldon went out on the veranda to see him,
and at first glance at the gaunt features and wasted body of the man knew
that his errand was likely to prove important. Nevertheless, Sheldon
demanded roughly,--
"What name you come along house belong me sun he go down?"
"Me Charley," the man muttered apologetically and wearily. "Me stop
along Binu."
"Ah, Binu Charley, eh? Well, what name you talk along me? What place
big fella marster along white man he stop?"
Joan and Sheldon together listened to the tale Binu Charley had brought.
He described Tudor's expedition up the Balesuna; the dragging of the
boats up the rapids; the passage up the river where it threaded the grass-
lands; the innumerable washings of gravel by the white men in search of
gold; the first rolling foothills; the man-traps of spear-staked pits in
the jungle trails; the first meeting with the bushmen, who had never seen
tobacco, and knew not the virtues of smoking; their friendliness; the
deeper penetration of the interior around the flanks of the Lion's Head;
the bush-sores and the fevers of the white men, and their madness in
trusting the bushmen.
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