cut in the basaltic wall of the cliffs, and against them the waves
pound continuously. The beach of Taha-Uka was a mile from where we
lay and not available for traffic, but around a shoulder of the
bluffs was hidden the tiny bay of Atuona, where goods could be landed.

While we discussed this, around those jutting rocks shot a small
out-rigger canoe, frail and hardly large enough to hold the body of
a slender Marquesan boy who paddled it. About his middle he wore a
red and yellow _pareu_, and his naked body was like a small and
perfect statue as he handled his tiny craft. When he came over the
side I saw that he was about thirteen years old and very handsome,
tawny in complexion, with regular features and an engaging smile.

His name, he said, was Nakohu, which means Exploding Eggs. This last
touch was all that was needed; without further ado I at once engaged
him as valet for the period of my stay in the Marquesas. His duties
would be to help in conveying my luggage ashore, to aid me in the
mysteries of cooking breadfruit and such other edibles as I might
discover, and to converse with me in Marquesan. In return, he was to
profit by the honor of being attached to my person, by an option on
such small articles as I might leave behind on my departure, and by
the munificent salary of about five cents a day. His gratitude and
delight knew no bounds.

Hardly had the arrangement been made, when a whaleboat rowed by
Marquesans followed in the wake of the canoe, and a tall, rangy
Frenchman climbed aboard the _Morning Star_. He was Monsieur André
Bauda, agent special, _commissaire_, postmaster; a _beau sabreur_,
veteran of many campaigns in Africa, dressed in khaki, medals on his
chest, full of gay words and fierce words, drinking his rum neat,