Pacific, I had ever exchanged two words with any missionary, let alone asked one for a favour. I didn’t like the lot, no trader does; they look down upon us, and make no concealment; and, besides, they’re partly Kanakaised, and suck up with natives instead of with other white men like themselves. I had on a rig of clean striped pyjamas—for, of course, I had dressed decent to go before the chiefs; but when I saw the missionary step out of this boat in the regular uniform, white duck clothes, pith helmet, white shirt and tie, and yellow boots to his feet, I could have bunged stones at him. As he came nearer, queering me pretty curious (because of the fight, I suppose), I saw he looked mortal sick, for the truth was he had a fever on, and had just had a chill in the boat. 

 “Mr. Tarleton, I believe?” says I, for I had got his name. 

 “And you, I suppose, are the new trader?” says he. 

 “I want to tell you first that I don’t hold with missions,” I went on, “and that I think you and the likes of you do a sight of harm, filling up the natives with old wives’ tales and bumptiousness.” 

 “You are perfectly entitled to your opinions,” says he, looking a bit ugly, “but I have no call to hear them.” 

 “It so happens that you’ve got to hear them,” I said. “I’m no missionary, nor missionary lover; I’m no Kanaka, nor favourer of Kanakas—I’m just a trader; I’m just a common, low-down, God-damned white man and British subject, the sort you would like to wipe your boots on. I hope that’s plain!” 

 “Yes, my man,” said he. “It’s more plain than creditable. When you are sober, you’ll be sorry for this.” 

 He tried to pass on, but I stopped him with my hand. The Kanakas were beginning to growl. Guess they didn’t like my tone, for I spoke to that man as free as I would to you. 

 “Now, you can’t say I’ve deceived you,” said I, “and I can go on. I want a service—I want two services, in fact; and, if you care to give me them, I’ll perhaps take more stock in what you call your Christianity.” 

 He was silent for a moment. Then he smiled. “You are rather a strange sort of man,” says he. 

 “I’m the sort of man God made me,” says I. “I don’t set up to be a gentleman,” I said. 

 “I am not quite so sure,” said he. “And what can I do for you, Mr.—?” 

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