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Updated: May 3, 2025
"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" I greeted. He glanced round, and half smiled. "Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" he replied, with the warmth of friendliness I have always met with among the Pacific tribes. I drew my deck-stool nearer to him, and he acknowledged the action with another half smile, but did not stir from his entrenchment, remaining as if hedged about with an inviolable fortress of exclusiveness.
After dinner I wandered astern with the traveller's ever-present hope of seeing the beauties of a typical Northern sunset, and by some happy chance I placed my deck-stool near an old tillicum, who was leaning on the rail, his pipe between his thin, curved lips, his brown hands clasped idly, his sombre eyes looking far out to sea, as though they searched the future or was it that they were seeing the past?
Many a time he had dreamed of his thus sailing over the clear seas with the fair Fionaghal from the South, until at times his heart, grown sick with yearning, was ready to despair of the impossible. And yet here she was sitting on a deck-stool near him the wide-apart, long-lashed eyes occasionally regarding him a neglected book open on her lap the small gloved hands toying with the cover.
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