I met him first in a hurricane； and though we hadgone through the hurricane on the same schooner， itwas not until the schooner had gone to pieces under usthat I first laid eyes on him. Without doubt I had seenhim with the rest of the kanaka crew on board， but Ihad not consciously been aware of his existence， for thePetite Jeanne was rather overcrowded. In addition toher eight or ten kanaka seamen， her white captain， mate，and supercargo， and her six cabin passengers， she sailedfrom Rangiroa with something like eighty-five deckpassengers—Paumotans and Tahitians， men， women， andchildren each with a trade box， to say nothing of sleepingmats， blankets， and clothes bundles.
The pearling season in the Paumotus was over， andall hands were returning to Tahiti. The six of us cabinpassengers were pearl buyers. Two were Americans， onewas Ah Choon （the whitest Chinese I have ever known），one was a German， one was a Polish Jew， and I completedthe half dozen.
It had been a prosperous season. Not one of us hadcause for complaint， nor one of the eighty-five deckpassengers either. All had done well， and all were lookingforward to a rest-off and a good time in Papeete.
Of course， the Petite Jeanne was overloaded. She wasonly seventy tons， and she had no right to carry a tithe ofthe mob she had on board. Beneath her hatches she wascrammed and jammed with pearl shell and copra. Even thetrade room was packed full with shell. It was a miracle thatthe sailors could work her. There was no moving about thedecks. They simply climbed back and forth along the rails.
In the night time they walked upon the sleepers， whocarpeted the deck， I’ll swear， two deep. Oh！ And therewere pigs and chickens on deck， and sacks of yams， whileevery conceivable place was festooned with strings ofdrinking cocoanuts and bunches of bananas. On bothsides， between the fore and main shrouds， guys had beenstretched， just low enough for the foreboom to swingclear； and from each of these guys at least fifty bunches ofbananas were suspended.
It promised to be a messy passage， even if we did makeit in the two or three days that would have been requiredif the southeast trades had been blowing fresh. Butthey weren’t blowing fresh. After the first five hours thetrade died away in a dozen or so gasping fans. The calmcontinued all that night and the next day—one of thoseglaring， glassy， calms， when the very thought of openingone’s eyes to look at it is sufficient to cause a headache.
The second day a man died—an Easter Islander， one ofthe best divers that season in the lagoon. Smallpox—thatis what it was； though how smallpox could come on board，when there had been no known cases ashore when we leftRangiroa， is beyond me. There it was， though—smallpox，a man dead， and three others down on their backs.
There was nothing to be done. We could not segregatethe sick， nor could we care for them. We were packed likesardines. There was nothing to do but rot and die—thatis， there was nothing to do after the night that followedthe first death. On that night， the mate， the supercargo，the Polish Jew， and four native divers sneaked away in thelarge whale boat. They were never heard of again. In themorning the captain promptly scuttled the remainingboats， and there we were.
That day there were two deaths； the following daythree； then it jumped to eight. It was curious to see howwe took it. The natives， for instance， fell into a conditionof dumb， stolid fear. The captain—Oudouse， his namewas， a Frenchman—became very nervous and voluble.
He actually got the twitches. He was a large fleshy man，weighing at least two hundred pounds， and he quicklybecame a faithful representation of a quivering jellymountainof fat.
The German， the two Americans， and myself bought upall the Scotch whiskey， and proceeded to stay drunk. Thetheory was beautiful—namely， if we kept ourselves soakedin alcohol， every smallpox germ that came into contactwith us would immediately be scorched to a cinder. Andthe theory worked， though I must confess that neitherCaptain Oudouse nor Ah Choon were attacked by thedisease either. The Frenchman did not drink at all， whileAh Choon restricted himself to one drink daily.
It was a pretty time. The sun， going into northerndeclination， was straight overhead. There was no wind，except for frequent squalls， which blew fiercely for fromfive minutes to half an hour， and wound up by deluging uswith rain. After each squall， the awful sun would come out，drawing clouds of steam from the soaked decks.
The steam was not nice. It was the vapor of death，freighted with millions and millions of germs. We alwaystook another drink when we saw it going up from the deadand dying， and usually we took two or three more drinks，mixing them exceptionally stiff. Also， we made it a rule totake an additional several each time they hove the deadover to the sharks that swarmed about us.
We had a week of it， and then the whiskey gave out. Itis just as well， or I shouldn’t be alive now. It took a soberman to pull through what followed， as you will agreewhen I mention the little fact that only two men didpull through. The other man was the heathen—at least，that was what I heard Captain Oudouse call him at themoment I first became aware of the heathen’s existence.
But to come back.
It was at the end of the week， with the whiskey gone，and the pearl buyers sober， that I happened to glanceat the barometer that hung in the cabin companionway.
Its normal register in the Paumotus was 29.90， and itwas quite customary to see it vacillate between 29.85and 30.00， or even 30.05； but to see it as I saw it， downto 29.62， was sufficient to sober the most drunken pearlbuyer that ever incinerated smallpox microbes in Scotchwhiskey.
