“What’s the trouble, then? Don’t you want to marry her?” said I, as O’Hara finished a glowing account of Fae Fae’s affection for him.
Then O’Hara made a further confession. It appeared that, in his usual careless way, he had been overbold, and so had spoiled his chance of wooing Fae Fae on the sly. He had gone to the Queen’s palace one night, and had serenaded Fae Fae on the guitar, like some old-time Spanish cavalier. This mad act had got Fae Fae into trouble, for she, in her impulsive way, had rushed from the palace stockade gate straight into O’Hara’s arms. It so happened that Tautoa, the chief to whom Fae Fae was betrothed, caught them in each other’s arms! And my chum had made matters worse, for he had managed to give Tautoa a black eye in the mêlée that followed his mad presumption. It appeared that Fae Fae was now under strict surveillance. And, more, the head chiefs had laid a charge at the Government Presidency about the matter. And I believe that, even at that early date, a warrant was out for the arrest of O’Hara for disturbing the peace and forcing his presence on a native maid of royal blood. When O’Hara first unfolded his plans for abducting Fae Fae, I endeavoured to reason with him.
“It’s ridiculous, pal. You’re talking like a South Sea novel. You can’t seize a beautiful girl of royal blood, a princess, and carry her away from the palace like some old freebooter of the southern seas. Besides, we’ll be arrested by the gendarmes. And there’s the old Queen to be considered, her consort, her son, and, last and not least, Fae Fae’s legitimate lover, Tautoa.”
O’Hara used a quite unprintable word as I mentioned that last name. Then he stared as though I were mad, and said:
“Me! talking like a novel! I mean to have her.”
His eyes flashed as he blurted out his plans, telling me how easy it was to steal a girl and bolt off into the mountains! His chest swelled visibly over his thoughts. Holding up his glass of vile Papeete beer in one hand, melodramatic fashion, he lifted his chin and burst into some Irish song that told of maids clasped in the arms of impassioned lovers. As he finished his extemporization, the native girls who were standing at the shanty’s door, murmured, “Yorana! Yorana!” One dusky Tahitian belle, with large, lustrous eyes, crossed her bare, smooth arms and one timid knee, and, as she leaned against the door frame, gave a delicious pout, telling with admiring eyes all that a romantic maid can tell when gazing on a man whose favour she yearns to gain.