South of the Line/The Mascot

E SAT in the sand, staring over his knees at a tiny island that danced in the shimmering heat haze. He was not beautiful, but then few mascots are. His weak eyes were so puckered against the glare as to be almost invisible; he was over-fat for his years, which could not have been more than thirty, and there was a vacuousness in his fixed gaze and drooping jaw that was not healthy. He was trying to think.

Now, a mascot has no business to think; it is not expected of him. All he has to do is to sit back and look wise, and accept what comes his way with becoming dignity. That is why the career so exactly suited James Eustace Talbot.

It is not a joke. It is a serious business. Just as a warship has its bulldog, a regiment its goat, or an eminently respectable family its black cat, so a South Sea tribe has its white man, when it can get him. If he is of the right variety, he gives little trouble. His wants are few—a grass house, sufficient to eat and drink, and an unlimited space of time in which to do nothing. His habits are gentle, and he is, as a rule, easily domesticated. Then there is always the mysterious element of good fortune attaching to him.

It is as pleasant to render one's neighbours envious in the South Pacific as elsewhere. For instance, if a hurricane misses your particular district by half a mile, you will say with an air of quiet superiority: "We have a white man," which will at once explain the phenomenon and sow the necessary seeds of covetousness in the breasts of your hearers. If, upon the other hand, the hurricane happens to blow your possession into the sea, you will say: "We have a white man, otherwise we should undoubtedly have been blown into the sea also." And if you are blown into the sea—well, that ends the matter, anyway. A mascot is a useful thing to have about the place.

And, as has been said, it suited Talbot. Out of a ruthless world he had come—a world with which he was utterly unsuited to do battle. The younger son of a younger son, brought up in an atmosphere of hounds and lawn tennis, he had one day awakened to the distressing fact that it would be necessary for him to work for a living. He had noticed that some people did it, and it looked easy, if uninteresting. For the most part it appeared to consist in departing by a certain train to the City, writing a few letters at a roll-top desk or dictating to a stenographer, and returning by a certain other train, whereby, and in time, one accumulated sufficient pelf to discontinue the process.

Talbot did it. He did it for over a month, and at the end of that time made his second illuminating discovery—namely that, as far as he was concerned, the thing was impossible. There was not that in his head which can be bartered for sufficient food, clothes, and lodging.

What of his hands? About this time he was fond of saying: "It's no use. I wasn't built for an office. I'd sooner go out with a pick and shovel." And he continued to say it until some unfeeling person made the inevitable rejoinder: "Then why not go out with a pick and shovel?"

Talbot did it. He went to Canada and did it for nearly two months—"it" consisting of digging post-holes two feet deep by a foot square from sunrise to sunset, at five cents a hole. As the field he was helping to construct was to be ten miles in circumference, and the post-holes were four yards apart, and his record was twenty in the day, his mind, when not disturbed by bruised hands or mosquito bites, was occupied with the mathematical problem of how long it would take to finish the field, and what he would have earned by the time it was finished.

He never reached a solution, because by the end of the second month he was convinced that one more day of post-hole digging would result in his mental collapse.

"Manual labour," he told himself at this time, "is not for those of active mind. For them it is nothing short of torture. I would sooner" And there his soliloquy faded into silence because when both head and hand fail there is not much left for a man.

Under the circumstances some would have taken to drink, or married for money, or even worse, and it is all to Talbot's credit that he did none of these things. Instead, he ricocheted over the world like a bagatelle-ball in search of its abiding-place, and finding it on the island of Kau, in the South Pacific Ocean, promptly sank to rest with a "click" of unutterable relief.

He did not know that he was a mascot. All he knew, or cared to know, was that, after long and painful experience, he had discovered an Elysium where it was possible to live without money and without toil, where his mere presence gave pleasure to others and harmed no one—except himself. This last in parenthesis, for Talbot's mental and physical decline had been so gradual that he was unaware of it. He had grown a beard, but then many do in the tropics; it saves trouble. He was fatter than when he came to Kau, which only showed that the place agreed with him. His heart appeared to indulge in acrobatics on occasion, but whose does not? As for memory and powers of concentration, he never pretended to have either, so they were no loss. And his eyes and knees? Well, that was kava. He frankly admitted it, and quite often after an apparently inanimate object had performed some impossible evolution for his benefit, or he stumbled over something which on investigation was found not to exist, he told himself that he must "let up on the kava a bit."

No, he had been in the Islands a year—or was it two?—and, on the whole, he had nothing to reproach himself with. Who can say more?

And now he was on the verge of spoiling it all by trying to think. And it was an island, this toy island dancing in the heat haze, that was responsible. It was called Onioti; Talbot knew that. Also it was tabu, but in a land where for no apparent reason every other rock, glade, and sand spit is "sacred," the circumstance had not interested him. All that troubled Talbot was that in the vicinity of that island he had either heard something that was physically incapable of emanating from such a spot, or his hearing, as well as his sight, was beginning to play him false.

Either contingency was sufficiently alarming to set the rusty mechanism of his mind in motion. He remembered being paddled out to sea by his faithful attendant for the purpose of fishing, and he remembered that, while the canoe lay rising and falling on a gentle swell, he had heard a voice, a high-pitched, unlovely voice, singing something that at the time struck him as unusual, and had rung in his head with maddening persistence ever since. It was one of those great, simple airs that live, that bring back memories crowding, crowding of cool rains, and lights reflected in wet pavements; of theatre porticos and hurrying crowds; of—of Gilbert and Sullivan opera; of—of "The Yeomen of the Guard"; that was it—a chorus from "The Yeomen of the Guard!" Talbot wriggled in the sand with sheer pleasure at having recalled it. Who could say he had no memory? And who could explain such a song proceeding from Onioti?

Talbot struggled to his feet without the customary helping hand of his attendant, and shambled along the sun-drenched beach. Joni saw him from afar, and came running in alarm with the huge green-lined umbrella specially imported for the mascot's benefit.

"I will go fishing," said Talbot.

Joni launched the canoe in silence. There was no accounting for the whims of mascots, and they must be humoured. If it were not for the kudos attaching to the post of attendant, he could have often wished that he were of the common people.

"We will go where we went yesterday," he was instructed now, and scarcely were the lines overboard in the lee of Onioti than his charge burst into song. The mascot's voice was not beautiful—it sounded harsh and discordant to Joni—but it pleased the singer, which was the main point.

Suddenly it ceased, and the sun-bathed silence closed down. Then, as though a reluctant echo had been awakened on the palm-fringed island, an answer came faint but clear over the water.

Joni dipped his paddle, and the canoe moved slowly seaward.

"Joni!" It was the mascot, leaning forward, tense of face, trembling like a croton in the wind. "Joni, I want to land on Onioti."

"Onioti tabu," muttered Joni, and bent to the paddle.

"Joni, what you take to land me on Onioti?" The mascot's voice had risen in a querulous crescendo. "I give you plenty 'bacco, a knife—wisiki!"

Never for a moment did the rhythmical plash of the paddle falter.

"Joni"

The attendant had more than half expected it. The mascot was upon him, a large, soft, ineffectual man, whom he forced gently back on to his pile of mats in the bottom of the canoe like a refractory infant.

"Onioti tabu," he repeated soothingly, and resumed his paddling. All was well. One must expect these sudden outbursts of passion. The mascot would have forgotten all about it by the morrow.

But there Joni was wrong.

During the bout of fever that inevitably followed the undue excitement in the canoe, Onioti danced before Talbot's eyes to the accompaniment of "The Yeomen of the Guard" chorus, and it was a changed mascot that ultimately rose from its mat-strewn bed and tottered into the sunshine.

Naked, pot-bellied children tugged at his sulu "for luck," as they had been taught, and the elders assembled in their doorways to congratulate him on his recovery; but he made no response. He was still thinking.

The Turaga (Prince) of Kau, who suffered from over-education at a distant seat of learning, found his mascot dull.

"Fever is the deuce, old chap," he observed, tugging a horny foot to his groin.

"It is," said Talbot.

"It takes it out of a fellow—what?"

"It does," Talbot admitted.

"And as for quinine," continued the Turaga conversationally, "it causes tunes to play in the head."

This also was the truth, as Talbot knew.

"Why is Onioti tabu?" he asked suddenly.

The Turaga's lethargic gaze turned in Talbot's direction with unexpected swiftness, then ascended to the sinnet-bound rafters of the palace roof.

"Why is anywhere tabu?" he suggested mildly.

"That's what I was wondering," said Talbot.

The Turaga smiled indulgently. There was no accounting for a mascot's wonderings.

"Well," he explained patiently, "we have some queer beliefs, 'relics of barbarism' they called them at college, but they—they survive; that is the word."

"I see," said Talbot.

"They survive," repeated the Turaga, moistening his lips as though over a choice morsel, "and one of them is that spirits sometimes come back to see that all is well with the place where their bodies lie. We like to leave them to it, so we make the place tabu. Quaint, is it not, old chap?"

"Very," said Talbot. "Then there is someone buried on Onioti?"

The Turaga's gaze left the palace rafters and fell on Talbot.

"Yes," he said, "there is, as you say, someone buried on Onioti. Also," he added irrelevantly, "there is a council to-night."

"I will be there," said Talbot magnificently, but rather marred his exit by stumbling over nothing whatever in the doorway.

The Turaga of Kau grinned and wagged his head. Oh, but they were amusing, these mascots!

The council dragged out its weary length. Talbot sat next to the Turaga, as was the custom, and mechanically sampled each cocoanut shell of kava as it was dipped from the carved tanoa bowl. This was necessary, because it was the time for planting taro, and all men know that, unless the ceremony is faithfully carried out, the crop will be a failure.

Then they talked. Lord, how they talked! And Talbot usually slept. Propped against one of the supporting posts, he slept the sleep of kava and inanition, while men expounded with a wealth of picturesque detail what really remarkable fellows they were, and their ancestors before them; while girls danced the history of Kau from the dark ages to the present day of enlightenment; while they ate pig roasted whole in banana leaves and unbelievable quantities of turtle.

But for some reason he did not sleep on this occasion. He sat looking on and thinking, and, when it was over, lay on his mat-strewn bed, staring wide-eyed but unseeing at a chink in the reed wall, through which a solitary and monstrous star winked invitingly.

The attendant, prone across the doorway, slept the sleep of repletion, together with the rest of Kau, and knew nothing of what passed. If he had seen, it is doubtful if he would have believed, for he was ignorant of the amazing, if temporary, effects on mascots of large quantities of neat spirit.

Talbot made three successful journeys through the enlarged chink in the reed wall, and finally launched the canoe on a sea of inky shadows. There was a faint off-shore breeze, so he hoisted the lugsail and sailed for Onioti, a fairy islet of quivering palm fronds in the star-light.

The canoe's prow kissed the sand, and Talbot scrambled almost nimbly ashore. He was feeling extraordinarily buoyant. If only it would last! He patted the pocket of his disreputable duck jacket to make sure the elixir was still there, and with renewed confidence followed a narrow but well-defined track leading from the beach through a tangle of tropical vegetation to the door of a native hut. An old man lay sleeping peacefully on his bamboo pillow across the threshold, a very old man by the ease with which Talbot rendered him innocuous. Then he went inside and struck a match.

By its flickering light he saw enough to make him thankful when it went out. Extraordinary noises were proceeding from a pile of mats in a far corner.

"Speak English," snapped Talbot. "I heard you singing Gilbert and Sullivan yesterday, so you can't kid me."

"Who the devil are you?" issued out of the darkness with startling clarity.

"That's better," said Talbot.

"Where's Tomati?" wailed the voice.

"Tomati is sleeping rather more soundly than usual," said Talbot.

"You've killed him?"

"I don't think so."

"What do you want?"

"You," said Talbot. "Help yourself."

The elixir passed into the darkness and did not return. Talbot involuntarily wiped the back of his hand on his sulu. Something had touched it—something that should have felt like another hand.

"What are you doing on Kau?" inquired the unknown, after a liquid pause.

"Nothing," said Talbot.

"You mean"

"Just that."

There followed a cackle of laughter.

"This is really quite amusing," chuckled the unknown; "the present—er—incumbent of Kau compares notes with his predecessor. Ha, ha!"

"Don't laugh," snapped Talbot. "If you laugh, I'll—I'll finish the business."

"So that's the way it's taken you?"

"Yes; I've been thinking."

"You shouldn't."

"I know, but I have and" Talbot broke off and shuddered.

"Great mistake," continued the unknown, who showed signs of becoming garrulous. "All right if you don't think. They look after you. But you should have been with the old man. Never saw much of the Turaga—struck me as insipid. Those were the days! Long-pig in my day, long-pig"

"Can you walk?" said Talbot.

"No. Why?"

"I was wondering how to get you down to the canoe."

"Canoe? What d'you mean?"

"I mean we're going to get out of here."

"I don't want to go."

"I can't help that," said Talbot.

"What's the use? You haven't seen me by daylight. Besides"

"I can't help that, either. I'm not going to leave you here."

A noise proceeded from the corner—a noise that in some respects resembled weeping.

"It'll kill me! It's madness! I tell you it'll kill me."

"That's another thing I can't help," said Talbot, between clenched teeth, and, grasping the topmost mat, pulled with all his strength.

It was surprising how easily it followed him over the floor, down the bush track and on to the beach. But there was not much on it. What there was he contrived to bundle into the canoe, and with the dawn Kau was a blue smudge on the eastern horizon.

An outrigger is hard to beat "full-and-by," and the wind held as only a "trade" knows how. For a day and a night and part of yet another day Talbot sat at the steering paddle, speeding he knew not whither, provided it was away from Kau. And during that time, and for many days to follow, he was a man possessed. A single motive shone before him like a flame. It was all that gave him strength.

The unknown gave little trouble—he was incapable of it—and except when supplying him with food and drink, Talbot kept his eyes averted. He found it best. Finally, and with the lashed steering paddle still under his arm, he slept.

He was awakened by sounds coming from the bow of the canoe. The unknown was sitting bolt upright, his sightless eyes staring fixedly at the moon.

"I say," he muttered—"I say!"

"Yes?" answered Talbot.

"I'm dying!" announced the unknown.

Talbot did not answer. What was there to be said in face of this perfectly natural, if belated, occurrence?

"I tell you I'm dying," repeated the unknown, as though hurt that the information had not created a deeper impression. "Said it would kill me," he added bitterly. "What was the use?"

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Any message...."

"Message!" repeated the unknown and laughed, and, laughing, died.

At the first blaze of dawn Talbot looked over the side, down, down into the crystal-clear depths.

"It's clean," he said aloud. And even as he spoke, a dark shadow passed under the canoe and was gone.

On the starboard bow there was land, big land, by the cloud-capped hills, range on range. Talbot headed for it, and in a few hours landed on a powdered coral beach. He buried the unknown above high-water mark, and plunged into the bush.

He walked, and continued to walk. It seemed very desirable to keep moving, until he could sleep from sheer exhaustion. He lived on fish—caught by hand in the rock-pools—crabs, shell fish, and wild fruit. He trudged like an automaton through mangrove swamps and blazing sand and primeval jungle. He did this for two weeks, and still lived. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and was after it, that was all. He had landed on Tannau, though he had no notion of it, and he had walked and slept and eaten his way half round the island before he came to the Company sugar estates at Laneka.

For a while he stood at the edge of the clearing, a lean, dishevelled figure, his sulu in ribbons, his shirt little better. He was dazed. He must get used to seeing alert white men in pith helmets, hurrying about their affairs, lines of neat white bungalows with mosquito doors, and mammoth sheds of throbbing machinery. He squatted native fashion in the sand, watching it all with an awful loneliness in his soul.

He marked the superintendent's bungalow on the hill, and when night fell made his way toward it. A yellow, homely light filtered through the drawn blinds. The superintendent was smoking an after-dinner cigar on the veranda.

"What do you want?" he demanded, not unkindly, when the first shock of the encounter had passed.

"Work," said James Eustace Talbot.