As soon as I left,it seems the king called for a Winchester and strolled outside the palisade,awaiting the defaulter.That day Tembinok'wore the woman's frock;as like as not,his make-up was completed by a pith helmet and blue spectacles.Conceive the glaring stretch of sandhills,the dwarf palms with their noon-day shadows,the line of the palisade,the crone sentries (each by a small clear fire)cooking syrup on their posts -and this chimaera waiting with his deadly engine.To him,enter at last the cook,strolling down the sandhill from Equator Town,listless,vain and graceful;with no thought of alarm.As soon as he was well within range,the travestied monarch fired the six shots over his head,at his feet,and on either hand of him:the second Apemama warning,startling in itself,fatal in significance,for the next time his majesty will aim to hit.I am told the king is a crack shot;that when he aims to kill,the grave may be got ready;and when he aims to miss,misses by so near a margin that the culprit tastes six times the bitterness of death.The effect upon the cook I had an opportunity of seeing for myself.My wife and I were returning from the sea-side of the island,when we spied one coming to meet us at a very quick,disordered pace,between a walk and a run.As we drew nearer we saw it was the cook,beside himself with some emotion,his usual warm,mulatto colour declined into a bluish pallor.He passed us without word or gesture,staring on us with the face of a Satan,and plunged on across the wood for the unpeopled quarter of the island and the long,desert beach,where he might rage to and fro unseen,and froth out the vials of his wrath,fear,and humiliation.Doubtless in the curses that he there uttered to the bursting surf and the tropic birds,the name of the Kaupoi -the rich man -was frequently repeated.I had made him the laughing-stock of the village in the affair of the king's dumplings;I had brought him by my machinations into disgrace and the immediate jeopardy of his days;last,and perhaps bitterest,he had found me there by the way to spy upon him in the hour of his disorder.
Time passed,and we saw no more of him.The season of the full moon came round,when a man thinks shame to lie sleeping;and Icontinued until late -perhaps till twelve or one in the morning -to walk on the bright sand and in the tossing shadow of the palms.
I played,as I wandered,on a flageolet,which occupied much of my attention;the fans overhead rattled in the wind with a metallic chatter;and a bare foot falls at any rate almost noiseless on that shifting soil.Yet when I got back to Equator Town,where all the lights were out,and my wife (who was still awake,and had been looking forth)asked me who it was that followed me,I thought she spoke in jest.'Not at all,'she said.'I saw him twice as you passed,walking close at your heels.He only left you at the corner of the maniap';he must be still behind the cook-house.'
Thither I ran -like a fool,without any weapon -and came face to face with the cook.He was within my tapu-line,which was death in itself;he could have no business there at such an hour but either to steal or to kill;guilt made him timorous;and he turned and fled before me in the night in silence.As he went I kicked him in that place where honour lies,and he gave tongue faintly like an injured mouse.At the moment I daresay he supposed it was a deadly instrument that touched him.
