“Mr. Tarleton, I believe? says I, for I
had got his name.
“And you, 1 suppose, aro the new trader f”
’"I want to tell you first that I don’t hold
with missions,” 1 went on, “and that 1
think you and the likes of yon do a sight
of harm filling up the natives with old wives’
tales and bumptiousness.”
“You are perfectly entitled to your opin
ions,” says he, looking u bit ugly, “but 1
have no call to hear them.”
"It so happens that you’ve got to hear
them,” said 1. “I am no missionary nor
missionary lover, I’m no Kanaka nor fa
vorer of Kanakas—l’m just a trader; I’m
just a common, low, white man and Brit
ish subject—the sort you would like, to wipe
your boots on. 1 hope that’s plain!”
“Yes, my man,” said he. “It’s more plain
than creditable. When you are sober you’ll
be sorry for this.”
He tried to pass on, but I stopped him
witli piy hand. The Kanakas were begin
ning to growl. Guess they didn’t like my
tone, for I' spoke to that man as free as I
would to you.
"Now. you can’t say I’ve deceived you,”
said 1, “and 1 can go on. I want a service
l want two services, in fact; and if you
care to give mo them, I’ll perhaps take more
stock in what you call your Christianity.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he
smiled. “You are rather it strange sort of
mail.” says he.
