story.

"It pleases Barbara," she cried, when I had told how Toni had denied all
knowledge of his friend, and how the Maori had sent the farewell chant
after the boat. "She thinks she will see and hear wonderful things
before we get back to civilization."

"I hope she will," I said, and little did I dream that the wish I
expressed at that moment should come true in such a remarkable manner
before we had returned.

"And you don't know what they meant by their song about the white
waterfall and Black Fernando's hell?" murmured Barbara.

"No, I don't," I replied. "The Maori ran away when I attempted to
cross-examine him, and Toni denies all knowledge of the duet on the
wharf."

"Oh, we must ask him again!" she cried. "There he is near the wheel.
I'll go and bring him!"

She raced madly after the Fijian and hauled him before us in triumph. I
was more convinced than ever that it was Toni who had blundered over
his lesson on the wharf, but Toni denied the charge more vehemently than
he did on the boat. He asserted in reply to Barbara Herndon's questions,
that he could not sing a note, that he was absolutely ignorant of white
waterfalls, and the only hell he knew was the one spoken of by the
missionary in Lower George Street, Sydney; and the girl sighed as she
gave up the effort.