"You are Mr. Bridger, the consul," said the broad man. "They
directed me here. Can you tell me what those big bunches of things
like gourds are in those trees that look like feather dusters along
the edge of the water?"

"Take that chair," said the consul, reoiling his cleaning rag.
"No, the other one--that bamboo thing won't hold you. Why, they're
cocoanuts--green cocoanuts. The shell of 'em is always a light
green before they're ripe."

"Much obliged," said the other man, sitting down carefully. "I
didn't quite like to tell the folks at home they were olives unless I
was sure about it. My name is Plunkett. I'm sheriff of Chatham
County, Kentucky. I've got extradition papers in my pocket
authorizing the arrest of a man on this island. They've been signed
by the President of this country, and they're in correct shape. The
man's name is Wade Williams. He's in the cocoanut raising
business. What he's wanted for is the murder of his wife two years
ago. Where can I find him?"

The consul squinted an eye and looked through his rifle barrel.

"There's nobody on the island who calls himself 'Williams,'" he
remarked.

"Didn't suppose there was," said Plunkett mildly. "He'll do by any
other name."

"Besides myself," said Bridger, "there are only two Americans on
Ratona--Bob Reeves and Henry Morgan."