get seven dollar load. Me fix for girl for captain and mate. Me stay
ship, eat hard-tackee, salt horsee, chew tobacco, drink rum. Good
time he all dead."

The repast ended, we set out to view the depleted village with its
few inhabitants, the remainder after Europe had subtracted native
habits and native health.

The gorge that parted the valley was wide and deep for the silver
stream that sang its way to the bay. When the rain fell in cascades
the channel hardly contained the mad torrent that raced from the
heights, a torrent that had destroyed the road built years before
when whaler's ships by the dozens came each year. Now the natives
made their way as of old, up and down rocky trails and over the
stepping-stones.

Near the beach we came upon a group of tumbledown shanties, remnants
of the seat of government. Only a thatched schoolhouse and a tiny
cabin for the teacher were habitable. Here the single artist of the
islands, Monsieur Charles Le Moine, had taught the three "R's" to
Vait-hua's adolescents for years. He was away now, Neo said, but we
found his cabin open and littered with canvases, sketches,
paint-tubes, and worn household articles.

"He got litt'ee broomee, an' sweep paint out litt'ee pipe on thing
make ship's sails," Neo explained. Surely a description of a broad
modern style.

On the wall or leaning against it on the floor were a dozen drawings
and oils of a young girl of startling beauty. Laughing, clear-eyed,