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"Face-of-Moon, no rain," she begged, "Daughter of Pearl and Coral eat clouds." She chinned my ear passionately, and I was disarmed in an instant. I hated to tell Triplett it seemed to dim his glory, but I needn't have worried. "Good business," he exclaimed. "We can get her out inter the open an' have some sailin' parties. I'd like to catch one of them wak-waks." That was the sort Triplett was.
One morning a little crowd of us, just the Swanks, Whinneys and ourselves, met on the beach for a pillow-fight. It was a rare sport, and, as the pillows were eighteen-inch logs of rapiti-wood, not without its element of danger. A half-hour of this and we lay bruised and panting on the beach listening to the hoarse bellowing of the wak-waks.
Little is said about it, but the fact is that the physical failures are moored at low tide to a lump of coral on one of the outer reefs. Sharks, octopi and the man-eating Wak-waks do the rest. This, as I say, is a rough sort of control but effective.
Never shall I forget the day she suddenly popped up close alongside and playfully tossed a magnificent pearl into Triplett's lap. But, as I say, I did not feel at ease. Perhaps it was my experience with the wak-waks, perhaps, however, I anticipate. Our merriest jaunts were nearer home. Most memorable of all was our first trip to the mountain, that gorgeous pile on the center of the lagoon.
"Listen to that surf," I remarked. "I never heard it grumble like that before." "You'd grumble, if you were full of wak-waks," he said.
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