I forgot the incident in the whirl of happenings that followed, but the
Fijian had a longer memory. Late that afternoon he was holding the wheel
with Soma, the big Kanaka who had jerked the knife at me, and as I
stopped to peer at the binnacle he beckoned me toward him.
"That was me that sing," he shrieked, as I put down my head. "I tell
damn big lie you an' Miss Herndon."
"Why?" I asked, amused at the peculiar manner in which he tried to
express his gratitude for the rescue of the morning.
"Big Jacky tell me not say anything," he screamed. "He tell it to me one
big secret all that talk about waterfall. Tell me not to tell any one.
You know why?"
I glanced at Soma and found that he was straining his ears to catch the
words the other was shrieking, and as I was more than suspicious of him,
I promptly closed the conversation.
"I'll see you in the morning," I roared.
The Fijian nodded and I fought my way forward, wondering as I clung to
the rigging what the pupil of the Maori had to tell me about the song.
The wind had ceased somewhat on the morning of the third day, but the
snaky rollers were still racing after the flying yacht.
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