stores, I went up to the broken-down shanty where Pierre the Rat ran his
house of refuge, and, after I had collected my few belongings, I went
back to the wharf, where a boat from _The Waif_ was waiting to take us
aboard the yacht.

It was when I was climbing into the boat that I got a surprise. One of
the two natives at the oars was the little Fijian who had been the pupil
of the Maori, but he didn't bat an eyelash when I stared at him.

"What's up?" asked Holman. "Do you know Toni?"

"He's one of the brace that were singing that song about the white
waterfall," I growled.

The Fijian let out a volley of indignant denials, and Holman laughed.

"You might be mistaken," he said. "Toni came ashore with me about two
hours ago, but I don't think he left the boat."

"I'm not mistaken," I said, as the Fijian kept on protesting that he had
never moved from the boat, "but it doesn't matter much. Let it go."

We were about a quarter of a mile from the shore when a man raced down
from the town, ran along to the sea end of the wharf and waved his arms
as if he was signalling us. Holman turned and looked at him.

"I wonder who it is?" he muttered. "Perhaps it is somebody with your
board bill, Verslun."

I started to laugh, then I stopped suddenly. The man on the wharf was