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Chapter 2. MORNING ON THE BEACH--THE THREE LETTERS
The clouds were all fled, the beauty of the tropic day was spread upon
Papeete; and the wall of breaking seas upon the reef, and the palms upon
the islet, already trembled in the heat. A French man-of-war was going
out, homeward bound; she lay in the middle distance of the port, an ant
heap for activity. In the night a schooner had come in, and now lay far
out, hard by the passage; and the yellow flag, the emblem of pestilence,
flew on her. From up the coast, a long procession of canoes headed
round the point and towards the market, bright as a scarf with the
many-coloured clothing of the natives and the piles of fruit. But not
even the beauty and the welcome warmth of the morning, not even these
naval movements, so interesting to sailors and to idlers, could engage
the attention of the outcasts. They were still cold at heart, their
mouths sour from the want of steep, their steps rambling from the
lack of food; and they strung like lame geese along the beach in a
disheartened silence. It was towards the town they moved; towards the
town whence smoke arose, where happier folk were breakfasting; and as
they went, their hungry eyes were upon all sides, but they were only
scouting for a meal.
A small and dingy schooner lay snug against the quay, with which it was
connected by a plank. On the forward deck, under a spot of awning, five
Kanakas who made up the crew, were squatted round a basin of fried feis,
and drinking coffee from tin mugs.
'Eight bells: knock off for breakfast!' cried the captain with a
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