LUCKY DIP.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 194, 17 August 1936, Page 15

LUCKY DIP.

MIKE DONOVAN spat disgustedly over the taffrail. He was feeling a bit of a fool, and, what was worse, was beginning to suspect that liis crew of half savage Solomon Islanders thought likewise. He had certainly acted strangely about those castaway natives whose waterlogged canoe he had picked up overnight. It was natural enough to pick them up —any skipper would have done the same—but swearing softly to himself, Mike reflected bitterly that it wasn't anyone who would have mollycoddled them as lie done. Drawing hard at his short, clay pipe, Mike Donovan wondered what in the name of creation had made him do it. Castaway natives were not uncommon in the squally southern seas and usually they had some cock-and-bull story to tell of pirate's gold or mammoth pearls to be found in certain shallow accessible waters. Why had he believed this tale, and why had lie mollycoddled these two black kids even now asleep in his own cabin while he —the skipper, mark you! and part owner of the Lucky Dip—had taken up his abode- in the small storebunk aft! As if that foolishness were not enough he must commit another, and here he was sailing madly into the blue, bound for an island lie had never visited before, had never even heard of until a few hours ago—and all because of the delirious ramblings of a dying native castaway 1 * * * * Mike swore again as he remembered how eagerly he had listened to the old man's dying tale. There had been three castaways in the canoe, the old native, and his son and daughter. The girl was a peach, about eighteen, as beautiful a blossom as ever the exotic seas had produced: Para, her name was. Pretty name, Mike soliloquised, but it wasn't her pretty black eyes which had sent him 011 the wild-goose chase to the north-east. Mike smiled as he recollected the old native's concern about his daughter's future, his warm Irish heart stirring strangely to the memory of the old fellow's gratitude as —just to please him—Mike had sworn on the Bible that lie would do all in his power to protect her. Then had come the usual tale. The old fellow was grateful. He would tell the white man where there were pearls in plenty just waiting to be picked up. Funafuti . . . did the white captain know the island? To Mike's slow shake of the head the dying castaway had propped himself up 011 one wasted elbow to point with a long finger to the northeast. "One, two, three day . . . you come Funafuti. Plenty big pearls Funafuti ..." The words had come slowly. The tired head had drooped. Mike, pouring brandy between the clenched teeth luul asked: "But whereabouts in Funafuti are the pearls?" The black eyes of the old native had been vacant. "North? . . . South? . . . East?" Mike had prompted questioningly. At the word east the eyes had stored an . assent. "Any landmarks? ... A creek? . . . An atoll?" The eyes had remained blank, then one long emaciated hand was raised to touch with emphasis the leather-bound Bible still propped against his knees. His mouth had opened, but only a hoarse rattle had come through the parted blue lips, and with a last convulsive effort he had raised the Bible in a line with the pu/.zled grey eyes of the Irish skipper. Next moment he was dead. What could the old man have meant 6y that gesture? Mike bad asked himself. Perhaps there would be some landmark which had impressed itself with some Biblical association on the missiontrained native's mind. The big Irish skipper smiled. Perhaps Para would know! He strolled over to the rail to ask her. But she could tell him nothing. But her father was right, and Cap'm Mik'l would find the pearls if he looked hard enough. Meanwhile .. . she swung round gaily . . . wouldn't Cap'm Mik'l like some breakfast? It was all ready on the table in his cabin! And Para" was hungry!

Three days later, amidst a flurry of startled iridescent fisli, the Lucky Dip dropped anchor in a lagoon on the eastern shore of the small volcanic, island, Funafuti. But three weeks of it was enough for Mike. His luck was dead out, and one evening he made up his mind to give it up. He would sail to-morrow for the Gilbert Group. There were usually pickings of some sort there. At supper time he broke, the news to Para. * For an instant the girl's eyes flashed, then dewed with unshed tears. "You no believe pearls in Funafuti, Mik'l?" r £h e tones were those of a disappointed child. Mike shrugged wearily. '"I'm not saying they're not here, J ara. But the thing is to find 'em. Ive tried ... we've all tiled* Para turned miserably away. #•• N » It was Para who made the find. Next morning Mike rushed on deck to find his kanakas gathered in a chattering group at the taii'rail. Someone was in the water below them. It was Para. Seeing the skipper, she smiled. "Sling'm down a big hook, Miki. Her teeth flashed. "Me find'm one big ! dam box!" . With the cord of a grapplin c lion hitched loosely round her waist, her brown legs suddenly tilted sky w aid then with a dexterous kick the lithe younc body was propelled smoothly to the gaily-coloured lagoon bed. A minute passed, occasional bubble, rose and burst, then suddenly her head appeared. Turning lazily over on her back she filled her lungs comfortably. "Me got'm, Mik'l! Now you pull ui | n I " It was a box, green-slimed and stouttimbered. Mike yelled for a hatchet, and with the crowd of excited kanaka, ! pressing round him, proceeded to hack Books! Hundreds of them .. . Small, leather-bound, and neatly packed . . . Bibles! . / Th-» joke was a good one to everyone but Para. She stood disconsolate by the opened case. Suddenly there was a screech from Para. He swung round.

(SHORT STORY.)

By KIRKE ALLAN.

What is it? Cramp?" He lifted her bodily from lier feet', then wonderingly placed her upright again. Para was laughing. '•Me lind'm, all right!" With shining eyes she stared into his. '"Look!" She thrust out her hand. Something white glistened in the brown cupped palm. It was a pearl. » * * • At breakfast time they counted them. One hundred and fifty flawless pearls, each snugly concealed in the binding of one of the Bibles Para had found. Sucking a jam spoon, she explained their history. They were the missionary's treasure. "But him no missionary," said Para. "Him smuggler. He teach black man to be honest and all the time he steal pearls from them. One time he disappear and no one see him again. But my father Paleyeh he tell me he know where missionary's treasure is!" She delved absently into the jam tin, then with an odd, strained look in her eyes -looked hard at him. "You rich man now. Cap'm Mik'l, what you do ?" She perched herself on his knee. Mike stared through and past her. What should he do? Like all seamen, he had visions of a home ashore . . . flowers ... a vegetable garden . . . a few liens. He could afford it all now. Mike placed his arm round her shoulder. "I'm wondering what I'm going to do with you." The girl's heavy-lidded eyes drooped sadly. But only for a moment. Rising quickly, she walked with typical native grace to the little harmonium and gently, almost reverently, opened its lid and began to play. "Sweet Rosie O'Grady!" Mike found himself singing the tuneful chorus and suddenly realised how happy he was. Pa'ra turned a laughing face towards him. But Mike was serious. "You like that old harmonium, Para?" he asked her softly. She nodded vigor- j ously. "Me like to keep'm capm! The big black eyes widened beseechingly. "It's yours," said Mike gruffly. Para rose to lier full height, her young breasts heaving with excitement. "Me keep'm for my own? When I go shore me take'm music box?' Mike smiled. "No, Para. Music box stay here! You stay here along music box?" Para stared. "Me stay here? But what you go look for now?" Mike Donovan's rugged features softened. "We go one long sail, Para, he told her. , , . "But where we go?" She placed both hands on his shoulders. "What we look for this time?" . Mike stroked back the liair from her forehead, then in quaint island English he answered her. "We go —look for happiness."