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South Sea Tales-Part8_JACK LONDON(1876-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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begun to blow.

"They can't dance worth a damn," said McAllister.



I had happened to mention that the Polynesian dances were superior to the

Papuan, and this McAllister had denied, for no other reason than his



cantankerousness. But it was too not to argue, and I said nothing. Besides, I

had never seen the Oolong people dance.



"I'll prove it to you," he announced, beckoning to the black New Hanover boy,

a labor recruit, who served as cook and general house servant. "Hey, you, boy,



you tell 'm one fella king come along me."

The boy departed, and back came the prime minister, perturbed, ill at ease,



and garrulous with apologetic explanation. In short, the king slept, and was

not to be disturbed.



"King he plenty strong fella sleep," was his final sentence.

McAllister was in such a rage that the prime minister incontinently fled, to



return with the king himself. They were a magnificent pair, the king

especially, who must have been all of six feet three inches in height. His



features had the eagle-like quality that is so frequently found in those of

the North American Indian. He had been molded and born to rule. His eyes



flashed as he listened, but right meekly he obeyed McAllister's command to

fetch a couple of hundred of the best dancers, male and female, in the



village. And dance they did, for two mortal hours, under that broiling sun.

They did not love him for it, and little he cared, in the end dismissing them



with abuse and sneers.

The abject servility of those magnificent savages was terrifying. How could it



be? What was the secret of his rule? More and more I puzzled as the days went

by, and though I observed perpetual examples of his undisputed sovereignty,



never a clew was there as to how it was.

One day I happened to speak of my disappointment in failing to trade for a



beautiful pair of orange cowries. The pair was worth five pounds in Sydney if

it was worth a cent. I had offered two hundred sticks of tobacco to the owner,



who had held out for three hundred. When I casually mentioned the situation,

McAllister immediately sent for the man, took the shells from him, and turned



them over to me. Fifty sticks were all he permitted me to pay for them. The

man accepted the tobacco and seemed overjoyed at getting off so easily. As for



me, I resolved to keep a bridle on my tongue in the future. And still I mulled

over the secret of McAllister's power. I even went to the extent of asking him



directly, but all he did was to cock one eye, look wise, and take another

drink.



One night I was out fishing in the lagoon with Oti, the man who had been

mulcted of the cowries. Privily, I had made up to him an additional hundred



and fifty sticks, and he had come to regard me with a respect that was almost

veneration, which was curious, seeing that he was an old man, twice my age at



least.

"What name you fella kanaka all the same pickaninny?" I began on him. "This



fella trader he one fella. You fella kanaka plenty fella too much. You fella

kanaka just like 'm dog--plenty fright along that fella trader. He no eat you,



fella. He no get 'm teeth along him. What name you too much fright?"

"S'pose plenty fella kanaka kill m?" he asked.



"He die," I retorted. "You fella kanaka kill 'm plenty fella white man long

time before. What name you fright this fella white man?"



"Yes, we kill 'm plenty," was his answer. "My word! Any amount! Long time

before. One time, me young fella too much, one big fella ship he stop outside.



Wind he no blow. Plenty fella kanaka we get 'm canoe, plenty fella canoe, we

go catch 'm that fella ship. My word--we catch 'm big fella fight. Two, three



white men shoot like hell. We no fright. We come alongside, we go up side,

plenty fella, maybe I think fifty-ten (five hundred). One fella white Mary



(woman) belong that fella ship. Never before I see 'm white Mary. Bime by

plenty white man finish. One fella skipper he no die. Five fella, six fella



white man no die. Skipper he sing out. Some fella white man he fight. Some

fella white man he lower away boat. After that, all together over the side



they go. Skipper he sling white Mary down. After that they washee (row) strong

fella plenty too much. Father belong me, that time he strong fella. He throw



'm one fella spear. That fella spear he go in one side that white Mary. He no

stop. My word, he go out other side that fella Mary. She finish. Me no



fright. Plenty kanaka too much no fright."

Old Oti's pride had been touched, for he suddenly stripped down his lava-lava



and showed me the unmistakable scar of a bullet. Before I could speak, his

line ran out suddenly. He checked it and attempted to haul in, but found that



the fish had run around a coral branch. Casting a look of reproach at me for




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