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“Oh, shut up,” said the other, “you’re worse than any old woman. I’m into this business whether or no, and you can stay out if you want. How’s it to be?”

Harman raised his head and sniffed the air tainted with the oysters rotting on the coral. Then he turned to the cabin hatch. “Come on,” said he, and they went below to close the bargain.

Clayton’s house was grass-thatched like the others and situated close to the groves on the right of the village; it had three rooms and a veranda, and mats and native-made chairs constituted the chief furniture. Beyond the house, farther on the right, was the shed where a few trade goods, mostly boxes of tobacco and rolls of print, were stored.

“That’s all there’s left of the stuff I brought with me,” said he; “it’ll carry you on, and I make you a present of it. The Kanakas aren’t used to high wages. A chap will dive all day for the fun of it and half a stick of tobacco, but you can do most of the diving yourselves and save on the business. There are the diving suits, two of them. Good as when I got them, and the pump’s in the boat there; she’s in that canoe house, it’s a Clarkson, in good order. Say, boys, you’ve no reason to sneeze over this deal. Here’s an island, a living larder, pigs and fowl and taro and fish and fruit for nix, a pearl lagoon not half worked, diving suits and pump and a bit of trade, and all for that frousty old brown boat of yours. Was you ever on your feet before?”