Adventure Magazine Cover, June 18, 1921 — page 91: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Tropic Idyl with his one white neighbor, so he throttled his anger and disgust with his will, and suf- fered himself to be Jed about. There was not much else to see, except the blue water of the sea, which Stort ignored, and the luxuriant jungle, which he dismissed with a wave of his hand and the word “‘scrub.”’ There was a structure with- out walls—but possessing the aristocratic corrugated-iron roof—situated in _ the scented shade of a huge umbrella-tree. This, said Stort, was the traders’ dining- room, the place where they, and any white visitors to the island, ate their meals. It was presided over by one ‘‘Charley,” a silent, smiling, little brown cripple. Stort explained that Charley was a Manilaman, an ex-pearl-diver, reduced this past few years since the inevitable diver’s paralysis had “‘given him best”’ to the lowly existence of beach-comber on Moorabal Island. “Of course, you can do for yourself,” said Stort, “but it isn’t worth while. Charley is a good cook.” There was, upon the farther side of the little bay, a collection of huts, miserable grass and leaf “‘gunyahs”’ for the most part, which housed the mongrel, ambulatory na- tive population. ‘“They come and go,” said Stort. ‘‘Some of the time they go with the pearlers, and some of the time they are-out on the Bar- rier after beche-de-mer; but most of the time they just eat and sleep. Rotten lot of nigs!”’ Last of all, Stort piloted Bruce to an open grassy glade on the higher ground, a meadow that wag fringed with brilliant flame trees and hibiscus and graceful mala- leuca, which were alive with darting sun- birds and eyes-aflame, bee-eaters and dia- mond birds and all the ilk of nectar-lovers. It was the Moorabal cemetery; and not least impressive of Moorabal’s sights. ‘Why, there seem to be more people under the ground than above it,’ com- mented Bruce. “There are,’ answered Stort. ‘But they are nigs, mostly. And not island people. The pearlers run in here to bury their dead, quite often. They never plant them at sea, you know—sharks and alligators! Over there, in the plot by itself, are the white men.” ‘‘And are they all pearlers?”’ Bruce asked. ‘“Well—some of them,” said Stort. ‘That first one is. That is Martel. His boys got 6 SI him while he was asleep and his lugger beached on Moorabal Point. His boys would have scoffed him, I dare say, but the rest of the fleet was coming up, so they took to the dingey and made the mainland. They were New Guinea boys, and we heard after- ward that the ‘abs’ got them in the man- grove swamps.” “Oh,” said Bruce. “That next mound—the newest one—is Pierce,” continued Stort. ‘‘He was the last T-T man before you.” ‘Why, they told me in Sydney that he disappeared, or something,” exclaimed Bruce. — : “So he did,” replied Stort. ‘‘He went balmy—D. T. and fever—and walked into the swamp around the point—and not even the black-boys could trail him. Don’t you ever walk into the swamp—alone, and at night. My word, I can’t think of it! Poor Pierce, he never came back; but I made the boys dig a grave, because, I say, any white man is entitled to one!”’ | ‘“‘T see,” said Bruce, giving his compan- ion a curious glance. Stort, he observed, was interested in his subject, and agitated. “That one next to Pierce—the old one— is Waddy,” went on-Stort. “He was the first T-T man up here. He did himself, because he got fed up with things. And that one farthest over—the one with the wooden cross—is Carter. I put that cross there—because he was Catholic. He—he went hard!’’ Stort’s voice ascended in scale and cracked, and he trembled, as if with chill. Bruce was astonished. “Carter went—oh, terrible hard!’’ qua- ‘vered Stort. ‘‘My word, it was awful!” ‘““‘Why—what—how—” stammered Bruce, conscious himself of an unpleasant thrill. “Death adder,” said Stort. ‘“‘He was drunk. SowasI. Wesat onalog. I gave him the bottle, and he dropped it; then he leaned over to pick it up, and the snake bit him jn the wrist—the artery. My word— horrible! He howled and rolled, and—and it ran out of his mouth; and then he turned blue: Stort gazed about him fearfully, and then, lowering his voice to a tremulous whisper, he continued: “T was sick afterward, and Carter came and talked to me! Say—tell me—do you think he came back?” The urgent tone and the twitching terror oO COmicloo CN UM) (©