"My dear Father, remember that blessed saint who roosted for twenty
years on the top of a pillar," urged the professor. "Stay where you are
until you have got a firm grip on the faith of these cannibals."

"Very good," assented Higgins, with a yawn. "But get me a bucket of
wather, me dear felly. Sure I must have some blessed an' ready for use.
The next time sarvice is conducted here I propose to sprinkle the
worshippers. It'll benefit um in more ways nor wan, if I'm a judge of
ayther sowl or body."

Such was the installation of Bishop Higgins, or, as the Feejeeans
insisted upon considering him, Divinity Higgins, over the diocese of the
Pacific.

There was something mysterious about the Cannibal Islands. Time flew
like a bird there; the days seemed no more than minutes; they were
coming, and they were gone. Events, emotions, changes of belief,
transformations of character, succeeded each other with magical
rapidity. Every thing was transacted at the wildest speed of dreams; and
yet, what was strangest of all, every thing went smoothly and naturally;
nothing excited astonishment. In a few days, or a few seconds, whatever
the period of time might have been, Father Higgins enjoyed being
Divinity Higgins.

"I think it best for the eventual spiritual interests av me paple that
they should continue to worship me for a while longer," he said to
Heller. "Human nature in a savage state, ye see, wont go at wan jump
from a log av wood to the thrue Deity. I'm playin' the part av a
steppin'-stone betwixt the two. Afther they've larned to lift their