It certainly was so. Here on the Island of Pentecost, in the New
Hebrides, was a Celestial washing clothes on the beach as much at home
as though he were in Tacoma or Cooktown. The Member's "My oath!"
Skye Terryer's "Ah!" and the Captain's chuckle were as weighty with
importance as though the whole question of Chinese immigration were now
to be settled. As we hove-to and dropped anchor, a boat was pushed out
into the surf by a man who had hurriedly come down the beach from the
house. In a moment or two he was alongside. An English face and an
English voice greeted us, and in the doorway of the house were an English
woman and her child.

What pleasure this meeting gave to us and to the trader--for such he was,
those only can know who have sailed these Southern Seas through long and
nerveless tropic days, and have lived, as this man did with his wife and
child, for months never seeing a white face, and ever in danger of an
attack from cannibal tribes, who, when apparently most disposed to amity,
are really planning a massacre. Yet with that instinct of gain so strong
in the Anglo-Saxon, this trader had dared the worst for the chance of
making money quickly and plentifully by the sale of copra to occasional
vessels. The Chinaman had come with the trader from Queensland, and we
were assured was "as good as gold." If colour counted, he looked it. At
this the pro-Mongolian magnanimously forbore to show any signs of
triumph. The Correspondent, on the contrary, turned to the Chinaman and
began chaffing him; he continued it as the others, save myself, passed on
towards the house.

This was the close of the dialogue: "Well, John, how are you getting on?"

"Welly good," was John's reply; "thirletty dollars a month, and learn the
plan of salvation."