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Updated: June 26, 2025
I think it was the quiet, self-contained Whinney who brought the most reasoned philosophy to bear on the situation. "They will forget," he said one evening, as we sat watching the Double Cross slowly revolve about its axis. "We must remember that they are a race of children. They have no written records of the past, no anticipations of the future. They live for the present.
"All right," said Swank, when I explained the conditions, "I won't go to bed at all." What the camera can do in interpreting the subtle values of a delicate color scheme is here shown in the prize photograph submitted by Reginald Whinney in the great competition presided over by Chief Baahaabaa. It is rare indeed to find a beach in the Filbert Islands so deserted.
Don't you appreciate the beauty of getting outside of the covers of a geography?" The old devil only grinned, his very leer seeming to say, "I've got a trump card up my sleeve, young man." What might have been a bitter scene was interrupted by something much more serious. We saw Whinney running along the edge of the lagoon into which he presently plunged and began swimming madly in our direction.
It was then that Whinney made the supreme call on his nerve, stiffened visibly and answered in a dead voice, "My wife, Babai-Alova-Babai, has prickly-heat!" It seemed to me in that moment that the entire atoll revolved rapidly in one direction while the mountain twirled in the other.
Finally when I thought we had talked enough I said "Well, gentlemen, are you ready for a ballot?" "We are," said Swank and Whinney. "Remember," I warned, "The green nuts are for the affirmative, the black ones for the negative. Secret ballots, of course." Wrapping our votes in metani leaves we dropped them in the ballot shell. Whinney was teller.
Nor were we an instant too soon, for just as we had succeeded in getting the oars to stand upright and were anxiously watching our well-worn army blankets belly out with the steady trade wind, the sun, which for the last hour had hung above the horizon, suddenly fell into the sea and night was upon us. "There's that," said Whinney quietly.
It was a perfect morning of California early summer. No breath of wind stirred over the drowsing fields, from which arose the calls of quail and the notes of meadowlarks. The air was heavy with lilac fragrance, and from the distance, as he rode between the lilac hedges, Graham heard the throaty nicker of Mountain Lad and the silvery answering whinney of the Fotherington Princess.
Instantly the head tossed up, and a short whinney whipped back to him like a question. Just before them the Morgan Hills jutted up, like stiff mud chopped by the tread of giants. "Now, partner," murmured Barry, "show 'em what you can do! Jest lengthen out a bit."
Whinney and I were surprised to find that the islanders took Swank more seriously than they did either of us. Of course, since the Kawa's forcible entry into the atoll premier honors were Triplett's, but Swank was easily second. The curious reason was that his pictures appealed. I think I have indicated that Swank was ultramodern in his tendencies.
Innocently he falls asleep! I don't believe a word of it. I think it's just a case of literary men sticking together. Two days after the Grand Banquet described in the last chapter, Whinney, Swank and I awoke with a sigh of simultaneous satisfaction, completely rested and restored.
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