I don’t know if my story sounds like a sketch from some semi-comic opera, but I _do_ know that it was a serious thing for us to attempt to get into a native girl’s bedroom as we did that night. But, mind you, I believed implicitly in O’Hara’s good intentions. Never once had I observed him take a liberty with a maid. He had the Celtic temperament, but was clean-minded, notwithstanding his sins. We opened the door that led down the corridor to Fae Fae’s bed-chamber; then we took a rather bold nip at the flask of whisky. In complete obedience to O’Hara’s whispered directions, I at once went down on my knees, then, hand over hand and knee over knee, we began to travel down that dark, narrow corridor! A stream of moonlight crept through the airholes that were in the roof. I could just discern O’Hara’s ragged coat-tails in front of me as I blindly groped along behind him. I saw the dim shadows of the palms waving about, silhouetted on the wooden walls as the winds stirred the forest trees outside. Arriving about half-way down the corridor, I whispered to my comrade:
“Supposing she’s asleep? Do you intend to seize her whilst she lies in bed? Won’t she scream if she sees me with you, and awaken the whole palace?”
I knew what English girls would do if they suddenly awoke and saw two sunburnt tramps on their knees, peering round the edge of their bedroom door at the dead of night.
My relief was considerable when O’Hara whispered:
“Don’t worry; Fae Fae expects me, and it’s not her who is going to scream.” Then, in a tense whisper, he added: “Besides, she sleeps alone, away from the rest of the palace folk.”
“Thank God for that much!” thought I, as we once more started to creep, like two monstrous slugs, down the floor of the corridor.
O’Hara suddenly stopped. My heart gave a slight flutter. I knew we had arrived outside Fae Fae’s chamber. I heard my comrade give two soft taps—so, “tap!” “tap!”—on the door’s bamboo panel with his knuckles. Each tap seemed to echo and re-echo down the silent corridor. I was thankful that I had drunk deeply from the whisky-flask which O’Hara had so thoughtfully handed me. Had we been about to seize a heathen man, or even an old woman, the matter would have seemed different. Notwithstanding that I had knocked about the world, the thought of so rudely disturbing a maiden’s slumber and those romantic ideals which I can find no name for here, had still a great influence over me. Consequently, I paused on the threshold of that chamber. She was an innocent girl, none need doubt that much. To the reader, who has never plunged into such a midnight venture as I tell of here, I can confidently say that he would require a little artificial stimulant to buck his courage up were he placed under like circumstances. There’s something eerie in creeping into a semi-heathen palace and crawling down an interminable corridor to seize a maid as she sleeps in her chamber. And all this, mind you, not for one’s self, but for another! And, again, there was not only the danger of detection by that heathen crew to reckon with, but also the French officials, who would assuredly give us penal servitude in the _calaboose_ (jail), or transport us to Noumea should they catch us on this mad venture. But for the fact that we had youth’s superabundant confidence on our side, I am sure we should never have ventured on such an escapade. I recall the breathless hush of that supreme moment when O’Hara once more gently tapped the maiden’s door.