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A Child of American Democracy—Rajah Barab—Barbarossa—Brown-Slave traffic Methods—Motavia’s Grave—The Magic Casement—The Splendour of Rose-coloured Spectacles—Mohammedanistic Desires—Giovanni’s Love Affairs—Exit Barab.
I WAS more than pleased to make the acquaintance of Giovonni as I wandered about Apia. This newfound comrade was a clever artist on the guitar, and our kindred tastes and mutual cashlessness was the direct cause of our forming a trio for troubadour purposes. To our great satisfaction, we came across another who was in a hard-up state: he was a derelict Yankee sailorman, and he told us he had been an operatic singer in his youth. Whether he strayed from the truth in swearing that he had charmed select audiences by his vocal accomplishments, I cannot say. I _do_ know that, when he sang, his peculiar twang and extraordinary facial contortions at our wandering concerts amply made up for the disinteresting drone of his wheezy voice. He accompanied Giovanni and myself on our wanderings for many miles, as we visited Savaii Isle and the old townships, Palaulae, Asaua, Matautu, Safune, Monono, also Sufatea, and all the important native villages. Our Yankee comrade’s swashbuckling deportment at our numerous engagements at the high-class native _fale-po-ula_ (court dance houses) caused Giovanni and myself a good deal of embarrassment. The fact is that his facial contortions and voice seemed to appeal especially to the seasoned shellbacks and traders who congregated outside the grog-shanties as we stood beneath the palms and sang and played on our instruments. And if it is a complimentary sign to have had a large bouquet in the shape of a putrid crab put into the collecting calabash-dish at our great mixed concert-festival down at Apia, then, all I can say is that the mêlée that followed the aforesaid donation was a decided success. Anyhow, Billy-goat whiskers, for so we called him, was not to blame. He was the natural child of a vast Republic that has no historical, dynastic background such as the Samoans and most of the South Sea races can claim in their history. Consequently Billy-goat whiskers had based all his ideas and ideals on the tinker-president-everyman-as-good-as-another creed, and he was a fine specimen of the Yankee swanker. The American is unborn who could imitate the splendid bearing that distinguishes a Fijian or Samoan chief. Most of the savage races have a splendid historical and legendary background that has influenced their actions from earliest childhood, much the same as French boys are influenced by the elegant bearing and gallant manners of the characters in their country’s historical novels, such as Dumas’ works, etc. And so our Yankee’s apparently vulgar ways were only the perfectly natural expression of a great democracy that has grown out of the soul of the people. But our pal was a brave, right down good fellow. His one fault was rum and gin. He carried his rum-flask, beard-comb, and pack of cards in a large handkerchief that was emblazoned with the stars and stripes. He had short, supple legs, and could suck his big toe like a baby. I can swear to that peculiarity of his, for when he had a touch of the D.T.’s he sat up in bed the whole night long and made a most irritating noise while using his big toe as a dummy in lieu of whisky. But, withal, it is not my intention to write about our Yankee comrade. I will just finish him off by saying that it was he who introduced us to Rajah Barab the Mohammedan. Rajah Barab was a Malayo-Indian. He had once lived in German New Guinea, but for sound reasons had hastily migrated to Samoa. He lived just outside Apia.