He set out a bottle of rum and several glasses, and we toasted him
while I looked over the register. Hardly any one had neglected to
write beside his name tributes to the charm of the place and the kind
heart of McTavish.

Charmian and Jack London's signatures were there, with a hearty word
for the host, and "This is the most beautiful spot in the universe,"
for Moorea and Urufara.

There were scores of poems, one in Latin and many in French. Americans
seem to have been contented to quote Kipling, the "Lotus Eaters," or
Omar, but Englishmen had written their own. English university men are
generous poetasters. I have read their verses in inns and outhouses of
many countries. Usually they season with a sprig from Horace or Vergil.

"I'm goin' to the west'ard," said McTavish. "There are too many
low whites comin' here. When Moorea had only sail from Tahiti, the
blackguards did not come, but now the dirty gasolene boat brings
them. I must be off to the west'ard, to Aitutaki or Penrhyn."

Poor Mac! he never made his westward until he went west in soldier
parlance.

McHenry, on our way back to Faatoai, said:

"McTavish is a bloody fool. He gives credit to the bleedin'
beach-combers. If I meet that dirty Hobson, I'll beat him to a pulp."

From under the thatched roof of our bower came the sounds of: