intently, slapped his hip sharply, uttering a melodious command and
shortly afterward Hitoia-Upa presented Swank with a beautifully made
wreath of elecampane blossoms (_inula helenion_) exactly matching his
beard. This was all very well but got us nowhere.

On the day following, however, our difficulties were unexpectedly
solved. Abluluti and a companion of his, Moolitonu
(Bull-lost-in-a-Thunder-Storm), indicated by certain large gestures
that if we liked they would be glad to make a tour of the island, a
proposition we gladly accepted. Moolitonu was our official map. On his
broad back in the most exquisite azure tattooing was a diagram of the
island showing all main-routes, good and bad trails and points of
interest. Moolitonu was, in fact, a human Blue-book.

Equipped with individual _taa-taas_ and quart cocoanut shells of
_hoopa_, a delicious twenty-seven per cent. milk, we set out along
a well-traveled trail, stopping ever and anon to enjoy the tranquil
beauty of the outer sea or the more spectacular glimpses of the inner
lagoon dominated by the mountain. We had made the circuit of
approximately three-fourths of the island, when suddenly, without a
word of warning, we stumbled into the _Hativa-faui_, or ladies'
dressing-room. Instantly we were surrounded by a bevy of captivating
beauties. Our guides had evidently counted on our surprise for they
laughed uproariously, their mirth being joyously echoed by the graceful
women who crowded about us, patting, petting and bidding us unmistakable
welcome to their compound. I have never seen a more charming sylvan
retreat.

[Illustration: Herman Swank]