“Dog he stop ’m along house, night-time he walk about,” Gogoomy was saying, perforce in beche-de-mer English, because he was talking to others beside his own tribesmen.  “You fella boy catch ’m one fella pig, put ’m kai-kai belong him along big fella fish-hook.  S’pose dog he walk about catch ’m kai-kai, you fella boy catch ’m dog allee same one shark.  Dog he finish close up.  Big fella marster sleep along big fella house.  White Mary sleep along pickaninny house.  One fella Adamu he stop along outside pickaninny house.  You fella boy finish ’m dog, finish ’m Adamu, finish ’m big fella marster, finish ’m White Mary, finish ’em altogether.  Plenty musket he stop, plenty powder, plenty tomahawk, plenty knife-fee, plenty porpoise teeth, plenty tobacco, plenty calico—­my word, too much plenty everything we take ’m along whale-boat, washee {5} like hell, sun he come up we long way too much.”

“Me catch ’m pig sun he go down,” spoke up one whose thin falsetto voice Joan recognized as belonging to Cosse, one of Gogoomy’s tribesmen.

“Me catch ’m dog,” said another.

“And me catch ’m white fella Mary,” Gogoomy cried triumphantly.  “Me catch ’m Kwaque he die along him damn quick.”

This much Joan heard of the plan to murder, and then her rising wrath proved too much for her discretion.  She spurred her horse into the grass, crying,—­

“What name you fella boy, eh?  What name?”

They arose, scrambling and scattering, and to her surprise she saw there were a dozen of them.  As she looked in their glowering faces and noted the heavy, two-foot, hacking cane-knives in their hands, she became suddenly aware of the rashness of her act.  If only she had had her revolver or a rifle, all would have been well.  But she had carelessly ventured out unarmed, and she followed the glance of Gogoomy to her waist and saw the pleased flash in his eyes as he perceived the absence of the dreadful man-killing revolver.

The first article in the Solomon Islands code for white men was never to show fear before a native, and Joan tried to carry off the situation in cavalier fashion.

“Too much talk along you fella boy,” she said severely.  “Too much talk, too little work.  Savvee?”

Gogoomy made no reply, but, apparently shifting weight, he slid one foot forward.  The other boys, spread fan-wise about her, were also sliding forward, the cruel cane-knives in their hands advertising their intention.

“You cut ’m grass!” she commanded imperatively.

But Gogoomy slid his other foot forward.  She measured the distance with her eye.  It would be impossible to whirl her horse around and get away.  She would be chopped down from behind.