white man's hand dropping to the pistol in his belt. The spring was
never made. The tensed body relaxed, and the black, stooping over the
corpse, helped carry it out. This time there was no muttering.

"Swine!" the white man gritted out through his teeth at the whole breed
of Solomon Islanders.

He was very sick, this white man, as sick as the black men who lay
helpless about him, and whom he attended. He never knew, each time he
entered the festering shambles, whether or not he would be able to
complete the round. But he did know in large degree of certainty that,
if he ever fainted there in the midst of the blacks, those who were able
would be at his throat like ravening wolves.

Part way down the line a man was dying. He gave orders for his removal
as soon as he had breathed his last. A black stuck his head inside the
shed door, saying,--

"Four fella sick too much."

Fresh cases, still able to walk, they clustered about the spokesman. The
white man singled out the weakest, and put him in the place just vacated
by the corpse. Also, he indicated the next weakest, telling him to wait
for a place until the next man died. Then, ordering one of the well men
to take a squad from the field-force and build a lean-to addition to the
hospital, he continued along the run-way, administering medicine and
cracking jokes in _beche-de-mer_ English to cheer the sufferers. Now and
again, from the far end, a weird wail was raised. When he arrived there
he found the noise was emitted by a boy who was not sick. The white
man's wrath was immediate.