a coolie with a single blow of his fist. He had not exactly crushed the
man's head like an egg-shell, but the blow had been sufficient to addle
what was inside, and, after being sick for a week, the man had died. But
the Chinese had not complained to the French devils that ruled over Tahiti.
It was their own look out. Schemmer was their problem. They must avoid
his wrath as they avoided the venom of the centipedes that lurked in the
grass or crept into the sleeping quarters on rainy nights. The Chinagos--
such they were called by the indolent, brown-skinned island folk--saw to it
that they did not displease Schemmer too greatly. This was equivalent to
rendering up to him a full measure of efficient toil. That blow of
Schemmer's fist had been worth thousands of dollars to the Company, and no
trouble ever came of it to Schemmer.

The French, with no instinct for colonization, futile in their childish
playgame of developing the resources of the island, were only too glad to
see the English Company succeed. What matter of Schemmer and his
redoubtable fist? The Chinago that died? Well, he was only a Chinago.
Besides, he died of sunstroke, as the doctor's certificate attested. True,
in all the history of Tahiti no one had ever died of sunstroke. But it was
that, precisely that, which made the death of this Chinago unique. The
doctor said as much in his report. He was very candid. Dividends must be
paid, or else one more failure would be added to the long history of
failure in Tahiti.

There was no understanding these white devils. Ah Cho pondered their
inscrutableness as he sat in the court room waiting the judgment. There
was no telling what went on at the back of their minds. He had seen a few
of the white devils. They were all alike--the officers and sailors on the
ship, the French officials, the several white men on the plantation,
including Schemmer. Their minds all moved in mysterious ways there was no