So quickly did these dozen whites collect, so short are
the distances in Tai-o-hae, that they were already
exchanging guesses as to the nationality and business
of the strange vessel, before she had gone about upon
her second board towards the anchorage. A moment
after, English colours were broken out at the main
truck.
"I told you she was a Johnny Bull--knew it by her
headsails," said an evergreen old salt, still qualified
(if he could anywhere have found an owner unacquainted
with his story) to adorn another quarter-deck and lose
another ship.
"She has American lines, anyway," said the astute Scots
engineer of the gin-mill; "it's my belief she's a
yacht."
"That's it," said the old salt, "a yacht! look at her
davits, and the boat over the stern."
"A yacht in your eye!" said a Glasgow voice. "Look at
her red ensign! A yacht! not much she isn't!"
"You can close the store, anyway, Tom," observed a
gentlemanly German. "BON JOUR, MON PRINCE!" he
added, as a dark, intelligent native cantered by on a
neat chestnut. "VOUS ALLEZ BOIRE UN VERRE DE
BIERE?"
But Prince Stanila Moanatini, the only reasonably busy
human creature on the island, was riding hot-spur to
view this morning's landslip on the mountain road; the
sun already visibly declined; night was imminent; and
if he would avoid the perils of darkness and precipice,
and the fear of the dead, the haunters of the jungle,
he must for once decline a hospitable invitation.
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