I had been some three or four weeks in Papeete when I first met O’Hara, the curly-headed Irishman. I was in the small beach grog-café near Potuo, having a glass of lime-juice at the time. By this, I do not wish to infer that I was, or am, a teetotaller: on cold nights at sea nothing warms my blood like a nip of rum. O’Hara introduced himself by giving me a whack on the back, and then joined with immense gusto in the chorus of “Killarney,” which I happened to be performing on my violin. Ah, what a voice he had! mellow and sweet, it vibrated like the strings of a ’cello in the hands of a Maestro. And, as he lifted his blue eyes and sang on, moving his fingers before him as though he played an imaginary guitar, the Tahitian belles, peeping through the open bar-door, lifted their dusky arms in sheer ecstasy as they sighed for “One fond look from those wild eyes.” One maid placed her hands on her hips and, putting forth her pearly toe-nailed feet in exquisite style, danced a graceful Tahitian _himine_. The old shellbacks waxed enthusiastic and pulled their whiskers, as they made critical comments on the dancer’s beauty. I might say here that these dances were wonderful for their restraint and artistic movement, quite devoid of the vulgar limb-movements as exhibited in European music-halls.
I attribute the almost menacing glance of those Tahitian orbs on the Celtic temperament for all that occurred that night. For my Irish friend overshadowed himself, became one inch taller, and broadened considerably in the shoulders, on seeing the impression he had created in the minds of those dusky maidens. His deplorable wit brought forth roars of laughter from the assemblage of shellbacks and half-castes who haunted their presence. Then he ordered a dozen drinks, pressed four plugs of ship’s tobacco into my hand, and swore that he would die for my sake. I returned the compliment, and told him that I did not wish him to die if he would only consent to sing “Killarney” once more. It was nearly midnight when the inevitable argument arose and the shellbacks and traders took sides. I often wonder how O’Hara and I escaped suffocation in the dust of the débris as the empty meat-tubs, the wooden bar-screens, and a hundred drinking-mugs got inextricably mixed up in the farewell mêlée and wild, insane farewells when true comradeship returned, after the fight, and each man had a last drink and then went his way.
