The author met James Chalmers in Apia and again at Port Moresby, New Guinea. Chalmers was a splendid type of the earnest missionary—manly, sincere, and brave, and a true Bohemian. He was murdered by New Guinea cannibals a few years ago.
The last remark recalls to my mind a little incident that it may not be out of place to mention here. Robert Louis Stevenson heard that a white woman was residing near Matautu, Savaii Isle. He at once made up his mind to go and see this lady—a natural enough wish in those remote isles, “where white men will tramp miles to catch a glimpse of a white woman.” Well, R. L. S. hired a boat from a half-caste who was a store-keeper, and with whom I was staying at that time. And so it happened that I and the mate of a schooner had the pleasure of accompanying R. L. S. in the boat. After a long, very wearying row from Manono, for it was a terrifically hot day, we arrived off the coast of Savaii. Even then we had to go ashore and tramp over two miles before we could reach the bungalow where the white lady resided. When we did arrive, Stevenson was nearly “dead-beat,” and struck me as irritated and fatigued. It was with much relief that the three of us at length passed under the shade of the mango-trees that sheltered the approach to the bungalow.
“Where’s the white lady?” said Stevenson, speaking in rather a sharp manner to a tawny-looking female who wore a small dark moustache and happened to be looking out of the bungalow’s doorway. To our astonishment the woman screwed her mouth up and shrieked out:
Stevenson’s consternation and my own can be better imagined than described, when I say that the sun-tanned, brown-skinned, vulgar-looking woman who addressed us was the beautiful white lady herself! And, if I may say so, she was a good specimen of the white lady to be found in the South Seas in those days.
“’ave a beer, old party?” she said to R. L. S., who had astutely apologized and cursed the hot sunlight that, shining in his eyes, had made him so colour-blind.
Stevenson’s tact, after that grievous mistake, had a magical effect on the manners of our countrywoman. She fastened a flower on R. L. S.’s coat.
“Say when!” she said to the mate, as she clutched the gin bottle, holding it high as she filled the glass.