Our captain, a white trader from the shore, and myself, were sitting on
deck "yarning" and smoking. We lay about a quarter of a mile from the
beach--such a beach, white as the driven snow, and sweeping in a great
curve for five long miles to the north and a lesser distance to the
south and west. Right abreast of the brig, nestling like huge birds'
nests in the shade of groves of coconut and bread-fruit trees, were the
houses of the principal village in Funafuti.

Presently the skipper picked up his glasses that lay beside him on the
skylight, and looked away down to leeward, where the white sails of a
schooner beating up to the anchorage were outlined against the line of
palms that fringed the beach of Funafala--the westernmost island that
forms one of the chain enclosing Funafuti Lagoon.

"It's Taplin's schooner, right enough," he said. "Let us go ashore and
give him and his pretty wife a hand to pack up."


* * * * *


Taplin was the name of the only other white trader on Funafuti besides
old Tom Humphreys, our own man. He had been two years on the island,
and was trading in opposition to our trader, as agent for a foreign
house--our owners were Sydney people--but his firm's unscrupulous
method of doing business had disgusted him. So one day he told the
supercargo of their vessel that he would trade for them no longer than
the exact time he had agreed upon--two years. He had come to Funafuti
from the Pelews, and was now awaiting the return of his firm's vessel
to take him back there again. Getting into our boat we were pulled