suggestion from his neighbour, was torn for some minutes by that

cruel ecstasy, and left spent and without voice or courage when

it passed. If a man had pity to spend, Papeete beach, in that

cold night and in that infected season, was a place to spend it

on. And of all the sufferers, perhaps the least deserving, but

surely the most pitiable, was the London clerk. He was used to

another life, to houses, beds, nursing, and the dainties of the

sickroom; he lay there now, in the cold open, exposed to the

gusting of the wind, and with an empty belly. He was besides

infirm; the disease shook him to the vitals; and his companions

watched his endurance with surprise. A profound commiseration

filled them, and contended with and conquered their abhorrence.

The disgust attendant on so ugly a sickness magnified this

dislike; at the same time, and with more than compensating

strength, shame for a sentiment so inhuman bound them the more

straitly to his service; and even the evil they knew of him

swelled their solicitude, for the thought of death is always the

least supportable when it draws near to the merely sensual and

selfish. Sometimes they held him up; sometimes, with mistaken

helpfulness, they beat him between the shoulders; and when the

poor wretch lay back ghastly and spent after a paroxysm of

coughing, they would sometimes peer into his face, doubtfully

exploring it for any mark of life. There is no one but has some

virtue: that of the clerk was courage; and he would make haste to

reassure them in a pleasantry not always decent.

'I'm all right, pals,' he gasped once: 'this is the thing to

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