A Trader's Tale

By “Tukapa Koko”

IT is one of the by-product? of my business to purchase, buy, >,r acquire by barter, as many eggs as I can honestly obtain, for here in Mangaia (Cook Group) the cackle-fruit are goodly cates, and held in high esteem.

To which honest purpose I am fain to bestow marbles, crayons, or sweets, on those native cherubs who bring me their plunder, ex bush —belike the addled off spring of some dignified but short memoried dowager hen, or the fresh, good offering of sprightly pullets, from nests ravished and reft.

One of my customers was sweet Pe’e, a maiden of bashful 13. Pe’e was a school girl, the daughter of a godlv deacon named Ivaiti, who, along with other of the fold, had the nrivilege of wearing his shirt-tails outside his pants. This, seen on a Mangaian, is the diaconal insignia.

Pe'e was no angel—but her mother, Neke, was still less. Neke was a huge, dusky creature, a six-foot Amazon with the build of a blacksmith. They of Africa are wont to say that every monkey is a gazelle to its mother. Neke was no beauty, but Ivaiti loved her in the same un critical fashion.

Came a day, when Neke, needing cloth, sought my “notion counter”, where were displayed goodly prints. She purchased seven shillings’ worth; the hiatus lav in the fact that she had only three shillings of -immediate wealth to defray said costs.

She deposited the three shillings, pro mising faithfully to bring the other four in the afterno’on, when honest Ivaiti should return from the beach, where orange-money was being naid out to the planters.

I saw no harm; it seemed a reasonable proposition. Neke, with fine raiment in a parcel, went off.

Came noon, came two, came four p.m.; but came not Neke.

At five o’clock I sent along a bill by messenger.

Came diaconal Ivaiti, in godlv wrath.

Neke, on his showing, knew nothing of any credit transaction with me. And I realised that I was ganged up on, put on the snot, and taken, commercially speak ing. for a one-way ride.

There was no redress. One is not sup nosed to allow credit to natives, though it is customary to concede the nrivilege of trust to the godly and their wives.

We “had words”, and parted, while the sun went down on our wrath.

Next day came Ivaiti’s daughter, Pe’e, a casual egg-merchant of old standing, to trade for marbles. These are two per egg: she had not the albuminous ovum of the species Gallus, but threepence of the realm in cash. I passed over six scintillating glass snheres, and Pe’e de narted in glee to play marbles with a fellow-scholar on the road for in Mangaia, the game is not exclusively a male pastime.

I. leaning on the counter, wished that naternal Neke had been equally as prompt in settlement. It was a warm, fine day.

I day-dreamed, lulled by the vociferations of the marble-plavers on the road outside.

The game, noisily disputatious, suddenly ceased; the sound of lamentation was heard in the land.

Came worthy Ivaiti, holding Pe’e by the arm, in policemen-like style.

I saw trouble; assumed my judicial face, grave and stern.

It was a case of grand larceny. The threepence, used by Pe’e to purchase the equipment for the juvenile bowling match, had come illegally out of the hung-up garment of her father.

The vice was versa; Ivaiti’s trouble

belonged not to my care. He, worthy deacon, knew it; and made humble re quest that the marbles be returned, and the threepence handed back to its rightful owner.

This, again, seemed a reasonable prop osition; but I felt it my duty to public morality to deliver a very pointed lecture regarding two cases of dishonesty in the same family—though, after all, not so rare a phenomenon as the same place being twice thunder-smitten.

It is one of the arts in handling semi civilised natives to know when to yield, and when to be adamant, lest precious “face” —as important in Polynesia as in far Nippon or Cathay—be lost.

Here, I might safely permit the return of the threepence, for I had a case— the whip-hand—and worthy Ivaiti knew it.

I handed over the coin; waited for Pe’e to produce the marbles. She, snivel ling, lamented with Rachel-like tears, but made no move to ante-up.

Ivaiti, losing patience, took the law into his own paternal hands. He explored the nether habiliment of his daughter.

In the lower hem, coyly held by elastic pressure, still warm with flesh-contact, were the spheres, hastily concealed by Pe’e when she saw her parent in the offing.

En passant: some time ago, great Mr.

G. Bernard Shaw, pressed to write for an admirer a one-sentence story having sex-interest, religion, and drama all in one, with a setting in high society, pro duced this lovely cameo;— “My God!” laughed the Duchess. “Take your hand off my knee!”

Ivaiti, deacon of Mangaia and eke hus band and father of slippery customers, seeking the hidden marbles, recalled this gem of art to my mind.