Tonoi, the old sinner, leaning against the fallen trunk of a cocoa-nut
tree, invariably squandered his mornings at pebbles; a gray-headed
rook of a native regularly plucking him of every other stick of
tobacco obtained from his friends, the planters. Toward afternoon,
he strolled back to their abode; where he tarried till the next
morning, smoking and snoozing, and, at times, prating about the
hapless fortunes of the House of Tonoi. But like any other easy-going
old dotard, he seemed for the most part perfectly content with
cheerful board and lodging.

On the whole, the valley of Martair was the quietest place imaginable.
Could the mosquitoes be induced to emigrate, one might spend the
month of August there quite pleasantly. But this was not the case
with the luckless Long Ghost and myself; as will presently be seen.



CHAPTER LIII.

FARMING IN POLYNESIA

THE planters were both whole-souled fellows; but, in other respects,
as unlike as possible.

One was a tall, robust Yankee, hern in the backwoods of Maine, sallow,
and with a long face;--the other was a short little Cockney, who had
first clapped his eyes on the Monument.

The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and