Old Kala-hoi, the net-maker, had ceased work for the day, and was seated on a mat outside his little house, smoking his pipe, looking dreamily out upon the blue waters of Leone Bay, on Tutuila Island, and enjoying the cool evening breeze that blew upon his bare limbs and played with the two scanty tufts of snow-white hair that grew just above his ears.

As he sat and smoked in quiet content, Marsh (the mate of our vessel) and I discerned him from the beach, as we stepped out of the boat We were both tired ­Marsh with weighing and stowing bags of copra in the steaming hold, and I with paying the natives for it in trade goods ­a task that had taken me from dawn till supper time.  Then, as the smell of the copra and the heat of the cabin were not conducive to the enjoyment of supper, we first had a bathe alongside the ship, got into clean pyjamas and came on shore to have a chat with old Kala-hoi.

“Got anything to eat, Kala-hoi?” we asked, as we sat down on the mat, in front of the ancient, who smilingly bade us welcome.

“My oven is made; and in it are a fat mullet, four breadfruit, some taro and plenty of ifi (chestnuts).  For to-day is Saturday, and I have cooked for to-morrow as well as for to-night.”  Then lapsing into his native Hawaiian (which both my companion and I understood), he added, “And most heartily are ye welcome.  In a little while the oven will be ready for uncovering and we shall eat.”

“But how will you do for food to-morrow, Kala-hoi?” inquired Marsh, with a smile and speaking in English.

“To-morrow is not yet.  When it comes I shall have more food.  I have but to ask of others and it is given willingly.  And even if it were not so, I would but have to pluck some more breadfruit or dig some taro and kill a fowl ­and cook again to night.”  And then with true native courtesy he changed the subject and asked us if we had enjoyed our swim.  Not much, we replied, the sea-water was too warm from the heat of the sun.

He nodded.  “Aye, the day has been hot and windless until now, when the cool land breeze comes down between the valleys from the mountains.  But why did ye not bathe in the stream in the fresh water, as I have just done.  It is a good thing to do, for it makes hunger as well as cleanses the skin, and that the salt water will not do.”

Marsh and I lit our pipes.  The old man rose, went into his house and returned with a large mat and two bamboo pillows, telling us it would be more comfortable to lie down and rest our backs, for he knew that we had “toiled much during the day”.  Then he resumed his own mat again, and crossed his hands on his tatooed knees, for although not a Samoan he was tatooed in the Samoan fashion.  Beside him was a Samoan Bible, for he was a deeply religious old fellow, and could both read and write.

“How comes it, Kala, that thou livest all alone half a league from the village?” asked Marsh.

Kala-hoi showed his still white and perfect teeth in a smile.

“Ah, why?  Because, O friend, this is mine own land.  I am, as thou knowest, of Maui, in Hawaii, and though for thirty and nine years have I lived in Samoa, yet now that my wife and two sons are dead, I would be by myself.  This land, which measures two hundred fathoms on three sides, and one hundred at the beach, was given to me by Mauga, King of Tutuila, because, ten years ago, when his son was shot in the thigh with a round bullet, I cut it out from where it had lodged against the bone.”

“How old are you, Kala-hoi?”

“I know not.  But I am old, very old.  Yet I am young ­still young.  I was a grown man when Wilkes, the American Commodore, came to Samoa.  And I went on board the Vincennes when she came to Apia, and because I spoke English well, lé alii Saua (’the cruel captain’), as we called him,{} made much of me, and treated me with some honour.  Ah, he was a stern man, and his eye was as the eye of an eagle.”

      Wilkes was called “the cruel captain” by the Samoans on
     account of his iron discipline.

Marsh nodded acquiescence.  “Aye, he was a strong, stern man.  More than a score of years after thou hadst seen him here in Samoa, he was like to have brought about a bloody war between my country and his.  Yet he did but what was right and just ­to my mind.  And I am an Englishman.”

Kala-hoi blew a stream of smoke through his nostrils.

“Aye, indeed, a stern man, and with a bitter tongue.  But because of his cruelty to his men was he punished, for in Fiji the kai tagata (cannibals) killed his nephew.  And yet he spoke always kindly to me, and gave me ten Mexican dollars because I did much interpretation for him with the chiefs of Samoa....  One day there came on board the ship two white men; they were papalagi tafea (beachcombers) and were like Samoans, for they wore no clothes, and were tatooed from their waists to their knees as I am.  They went to the forepart of the ship and began talking to the sailors.  They were very saucy men and proud of their appearance.  The Commodore sent for them, and he looked at them with scorn ­one was an Englishman, the other a Dane.  This they told him.

“‘O ye brute beasts,’ he said, and he spat over the side of the ship contempt ’Were ye Americans I would trice ye both up and give ye each a hundred lashes, for so degrading thyselves.  Out of my ship, ye filthy tatooed swine.  Thou art a disgrace to thy race!’ So terrified were they that they could not speak, and went away in shame.”

“Thou hast seen many things in thy time, Kala-hoi.”

“Nay, friend.  Not such things as thou hast seen ­such as the sun at midnight, of which thou hast told me, and which had any man but thou said it, I would have cried ‘Liar!’”

Marsh laughed ­“Yet ’tis true, old Kala-hoi.  I have seen the sun at midnight, many, many times.”

“Aye.  Thou sayest, and I believe.  Now, let me uncover my oven so that we may eat.  ’Tis a fine fat mullet.”

After we had eaten, the kindly old man brought us a bowl of water in which to lave our hands, and then a spotless white towel, for he had associated much with Europeans in his younger days and had adopted many of their customs.  On Sundays he always wore to church coat, trousers, shirt, collar and necktie and boots (minus socks) and covered his bald pate with a wide hat or fala leaf.  Moreover, he was a deacon.

Presently we heard voices, and a party of young people of both sexes appeared.  They had been bathing in the stream and were now returning to the village.  In most of them I recognised “customers” of mine during the day ­they were carrying baskets and bundles containing the goods bought from the ship.  They all sat down around us, began to make cigarettes of strong twist tobacco, roll it in strips of dried banana leaf, and gossip.  Then Kala-hoi ­although he was a deacon ­asked the girls if they would make us a bowl of kava.  They were only too pleased, and so Kala-hoi again rose, went to his house and brought out a root of kava, the kava-bowl and some gourds of water, and gave them to the giggling maidens who, securing a mat for themselves, withdrew a little distance and proceeded to make the drink, the young men attending upon them to-cut the kava into thin, flaky strips, and leaving us three to ourselves.  Night had come, and the bay was very quiet.  Here and there on the opposite side lights began to gleam through the lines of palms on the beach from isolated native houses, as the people ate their evening meal by the bright flame of a pile of coco-nut shells or a lamp of coco-nut oil.

Marsh wanted the old man to talk.

“How long since is it that thy wife and sons died, Kala-hoi?”

The old man placed his brown, shapely hand on the seaman’s knee, and answered softly: ­

“’Tis twenty years”.

“They died together, did they not?”

“Nay ­not together, but on the same day.  Thou hast heard something of it?”

“Only something.  And if it doth not hurt thee to speak of it, I should like to know how such a great misfortune came to thee.”

The net-maker looked into the white man’s face, and read sympathy in his eyes.

“Friend, this was the way of it.  Because of my usefulness to him as an interpreter of English, Taula, chief of Samatau, gave me his niece, Moe, in marriage.  She was a strong girl, and handsome, but had a sharp tongue.  Yet she loved me, and I loved her.

“We were happy.  We lived at the town of Tufu on the itu papa” (iron-bound coast) “of Savai’i.  Moe bore me boy twins.  They grew up strong, hardy and courageous, though, like their mother, they were quick-tempered, and resented reproof, even from me, their father.  And often they quarrelled and fought.

“When they were become sixteen years of age, they were tatooed in the Samoan fashion, and that cost me much in money and presents.  But Tui, who was the elder by a little while, was jealous that his brother Galu had been tatooed first.  And yet the two loved each other ­as I will show thee.

“One day my wife and the two boys went into the mountains to get wild bananas.  They cut three heavy bunches and were returning home, when Galu and Tui began to quarrel, on the steep mountain path.  They came to blows, and their mother, in trying to separate them, lost her footing and fell far below on to a bed of lava.  She died quickly.

“The two boys descended and held her dead body in their arms for a long while, and wept together over her face.  Then they carried her down the mountain side into the village, and said to the people: ­

“’We, Tui and Galu, have killed our mother through our quarrelling.  Tell our father Kala-hoi, that we fear to meet him, and now go to expiate our crime.’

“They ran away swiftly; they climbed the mountain side, and, with arms around each other, sprang over the cliff from which their mother had fallen.  And when I, and many others with me, found them, they were both dead.”

“Thou hast had a bitter sorrow, Kala-hoi.”  “Aye, a bitter sorrow.  But yet in my dreams I see them all.  And sometimes, even in my work, as I make my nets, I hear the boys’ voices, quarrelling, and my wife saying, ’Be still, ye boys, lest I call thy father to chastise thee both ’.”

As the girls brought us the kava Marsh put his hand on the old, smooth, brown pate, and saw that the eyes of the net-maker were filled with tears.