“And then came the missionary.  That missionary! What a Guy!  Gummy!  It was in the afternoon, and I was sitting in state in my outer temple place, sitting on that old black stone of theirs, when he came.  I heard a row outside and jabbering, and then his voice speaking to an interpreter.  ‘They worship stocks and stones,’ he said, and I knew what was up, in a flash.  I had one of my windows out for comfort, and I sang out straight away on the spur of the moment.  ‘Stocks and stones!’ I says.  ’You come inside,’ I says, ‘and I’ll punch your blooming Exeter Hall of a head.’

“There was a kind of silence and more jabbering, and in he came, Bible in hand, after the manner of them—­a little sandy chap in specks and a pith helmet.  I flatter myself that me sitting there in the shadows, with my copper head and my big goggles, struck him a bit of a heap at first.  ‘Well,’ I says, ‘how’s the trade in scissors?’ for I don’t hold with missionaries.

“I had a lark with that missionary.  He was a raw hand, and quite outclassed by a man like me.  He gasped out who was I, and I told him to read the inscription at my feet if he wanted to know.  There wasn’t no inscription; why should there be? but down he goes to read, and his interpreter, being of course as superstitious as any of them, more so by reason of his seeing missionary close to, took it for an act of worship and plumped down like a shot.  All my people gave a howl of triumph, and there wasn’t any more business to be done in my village after that journey, not by the likes of him.

“But, of course, I was a fool to choke him off like that.  If I’d had any sense I should have told him straight away of the treasure and taken him into Co.  I’ve no doubt he’d have come into Co.  A child, with a few hours to think it over, could have seen the connection between my diving dress and the loss of the Ocean Pioneer.  A week after he left I went out one morning and saw the Motherhood, the salver’s ship from Starr Race, towing up the channel and sounding.  The whole blessed game was up, and all my trouble thrown away.  Gummy!  How wild I felt!  And guying it in that stinking silly dress!  Four months!”

The sunburnt man’s story degenerated again.  “Think of it,” he said, when he emerged to linguistic purity once more.  “Forty thousand pounds’ worth of gold.”

“Did the little missionary come back?” I asked.

“Oh yes! bless him!  And he pledged his reputation there was a man inside the god, and started out to see as much with tremendous ceremony.  But wasn’t—­he got sold again.  I always did hate scenes and explanations, and long before he came I was out of it all—­going home to Banya along the coast, hiding in bushes by day, and thieving food from the villages by night.  Only weapon, a spear.  No clothes, no money.  Nothing.  My face, my fortune, as the saying is.  And just a squeak of eight thousand pounds of gold—­fifth share.  But the natives cut up rusty, thank goodness, because they thought it was him had driven their luck away.”