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Mystic Isles of the South Seas. by Frederick O'Brien
page 99 of 521 (19%)
went back to where he had tumbled him. He was layin' on his back in
a kind o' ditch, and he was white instead o' yeller. He was white
as Lyin' Bill's schooner. How would you 'a' done? Well, to protect
that dirty pup Brown, I covered him over with leaves from head to
foot--big bread-fruit and cocoanut-leaves. He never showed up again,
and Brown had the vanilla. That's how he got his start, and, so help
me God! I never got a franc from the business."

There was venom in McHenry's tone, and he looked at me, the newcomer,
to see what impression he had made. The others said not a word of
comment, and it may have been an often-told tale by him. He had
emptied his glass of the potent Martinique rum four or five times.

"Was the Chinaman sure dead when you put the leaves over him?" I asked,
influenced by his staring eyes.

McHenry grinned foully.

"Aye, man, you want too much," he replied. "I say his face was white,
and he was on his back in the marsh. If he was alive, the leaves didn't
finish him, and if he was croaked, it didn't matter. I was obligin'
a friend. You'd have done as much." He took up his glass and muttered
dramatically, "A few leaves for a friend."

I shuddered, but Landers leaned over the table and said to me,
sotto voce:

"McHenry's tellin' his usual bloody lie. Brown got the vanilla
all right, but what he did was to have the bloomin' Chink consign
it to him proper', and not give him a receipt. Then he denied all
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