"Bright Marquesas sunlight glinted from the cutlass of the intrepid explorer as with a sweep of his arm he brought the blade down on the tattooed throat of the man-eating savage."
Mr. Pottle's errant mind was jerked back sharply from the South Seas to Granville, Ohio, by a protesting voice.
"Hey, Pottle, what's bitin' you? You took a slice out o' my Adam's apple that time."
Mr. Pottle, with apologetic murmurs, rubbed the wound with an alum stick; then he dusted his victim with talcum powder, and gave the patented chair a little kick, so that its occupant was shot bolt upright.
"Bay rum?" asked Mr. Pottle, professionally.
"Nope."
"Dandruff-Death?"
"Nope."
"Sweet Lilac Tonic?"
"Nope."
"Plain water?"
"Yep."
"Naked savages danced and howled round the great pot in which the trussed explorer had been placed. The cannibal chief, fire-brand in hand, made ready to ignite the fagots under the pot. It began to look bad for the explorer."
Again a shrill voice of protest punctured Mr. Pottle's day-dream.
"Hey, Pottle, come to life! You've went and put Sweet Lilac Tonic on me 'stead of plain water. I ain't going to no coon ball. You've gone and smelled me up like a screamin' geranium."
"Why, so I have, so I have," said Mr. Pottle, in accents of surprise and contrition. "Sorry, Luke. It'll wear off in a day or two. Guess I must be gettin' absent-minded."
"That's what you said last Saddy when you clipped a piece out o' Virgil Overholt's ear," observed Luke, with some indignation. "What's bitin' you, anyhow, Pottle? You used to be the best barber in the county before you took to readin' them books."
"What books?"
"All about cannibals and explorers and the South-Sea Islands," answered Luke.
"They're good books," said Mr. Pottle warmly. His eyes brightened. "I just got a new one," he said. "It's called 'Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, and a White Man.' I sat up till two readin' it. It's about the Marquesas Islands, and it's a darn' excitin' book, Luke."
"It excited you so much you sliced my Adam's apple," grumbled Luke, clamping on his rubber collar. "You had better cut out this fool readin'."
"Don't you ever read, Luke?"
"Sure I do. 'The Mornin' News-Press' for week-days, 'The P'lice Gazette' when I come here to get shaved Saddy nights, and the Bible for Sundays. That's readin' enough for any man."
"Did you ever read 'Robinson Crusoe'?"
"Nope, but I heard him."
"Heard him? Heard who?"
"Crusoe," said Luke, snapping his ready-tied tie into place.
"Heard him? You couldn't have heard him."
"I couldn't, hey? Well, I did."
"Where?" demanded Mr. Pottle.
"Singin' on a phonograph," said Luke.
Mr. Pottle said nothing; Luke was a regular customer, and in successful modern business the customer is always right. However, Mr. Pottle seized a strop and by his vigorous stroppings silently expressed his disgust at a man who hadn't heard of "Robinson Crusoe," for Robinson was one of Mr. Pottle's deities.
When Luke reached the door, he turned.
"Say, Pottle," he said, "if you're so nutty about these here South Sea Islands, why don't you go there?"
Mr. Pottle ceased his stropping.
"I am going," he said.
Luke gave a dubious hoot and vanished. He did not realize that he had heard Mr. Pottle make the big decision of his life.
§2
That night Mr. Pottle finished the book, and dreamed, as he had dreamed on many a night since the lure of the South Seas first cast a spell on him, that in a distant, sun-loved isle, bright with greens and purples, he reclined beneath the mana-mana-hine (or umbrella fern) on his own paepae (or platform), a scarlet pareu (or breech-clout) about his middle, a yellow hibiscus flower in his hair, while the kukus (or small green turtle-doves) cooed in the branches of the pevatvii (or banana-tree), and Bunnidori (that is, she, with the Lips of Love), a tawny maid of wondrous beauty, played softly to him on the ukulele. The tantalizing fragrance of a bowl of popoi (or pudding) mingled in his nostrils with the more delicate perfume of the golden blossoms of the puu-epu (or mulberry-tree). A sound in the jungle, a deep boom! boom! boom! roused him from this reverie.
"What is it, O Bunnidori?" he asked.
"'Tis a feast, O my Pottle, Lord of the Menikes (that is, white men)," lisped his companion.
"Upon what do the men in the jungle feast, O plump and pleasing daughter of delight?" inquired Mr. Pottle, who was up on Polynesian etiquette.
She lowered her already low voice still lower.
"Upon the long pig that speaks," she whispered.
A delicious shudder ran down the spine of the sleeping Mr. Pottle, for from his reading he knew that "the long pig that speaks" means—man!
For Mr. Pottle had one big ambition, one great suppressed desire. It was the dearest wish of his thirty-six years of life to meet a cannibal, a real cannibal, face to face, eye to eye.
Next day he sold his barber's shop. Two months and seventeen days later he was unpacking his trunk in the tiny settlement of Vait-hua, in the Marquesas Islands, in the heart of the South Seas.
The air was balmy, the sea deep purple, the nodding palms and giant ferns of the greenest green were exactly as advertised; but when the first week or two of enchantment had worn off, Mr. Pottle owned to a certain feeling of disappointment.
He tasted popoi and found it rather nasty; the hotel in which he stayed—the only one—was deficient in plumbing, but not in fauna. The natives—he had expected great things of the natives—were remarkably like underdone Pullman porters wrapped in bandana handkerchiefs. They were not exciting, they exhibited no inclination to eat Mr. Pottle or one another, they coveted his pink shirt, and begged for a drink from his bottle of Sweet Lilac Tonic.
He mentioned his disappointment at these evidences of civilization to Tiki Tiu, the astute native who kept the general store.
Mr. Pottle's mode of conversation was his own invention. From the books he had read he improvised a language. It was simple. He gave English words a barbaric sound, usually by suffixing "um" or "ee," shouted them at the top of his voice into the ear of the person with whom he was conversing, and repeated them in various permutations. He addressed Tiki Tiu with brisk and confident familiarity.
"Helloee, Tiki Tiu. Me wantum see can-balls. Can-balls me wantum see. Me see can-balls wantum."
The venerable native, who spoke seventeen island dialects and tongues, and dabbled in English, Spanish, and French, appeared to apprehend his meaning; indeed, one might almost have thought he had heard this question before, for he answered promptly:
"No more can-balls here. All Baptists."
"Where are can-balls? Can-balls where are? Where can-balls are?" demanded Mr. Pottle.
Tiki Tiu closed his eyes and let blue smoke filter through his nostrils. Finally he said:
"Isle of O-pip-ee."
"Isle