HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

“ Mem, no have got chocolate, how can make puddlin’ ?”

I laugh outright. Jim looks hurt.

“ Jim, did you ever hear of one Crusoe?”

“No, Tuan!” (Lord.)

“Well, he was a Zuan who lived for thirty years without once eating
chocolate ‘ puddlin’.’ We'll not eat any for ten days. Sabe?”

Jim retires, mortified and astonished.

Inside of another half-hour, the. Zukang Ayer or water carrier arrives on the
scene. He is simply dressed in a pair of knee-breeches. He complains of a
lack of silver polish, and is told to pound up a stone for the knives, and let the
silver alone.

We are really in the heart of a small archipelago. All about us are verdure-
covered islands. They are now the homes of native fishermen, but a century
ago they were hiding-places for the fierce Malayan pirates whose sanguinary
deeds made the peninsula a byword in the mouths of Europeans.

A rocky beach extends about the island proper, contracting and expanding
as the tide rises and falls. On this beach.a hundred and one varieties of shells
glisten in the salt water, exposing their delicate shades of coloring to the rays
of the sun. Coral formations of endless design and shape come to view through
the limpid spectrum, forming a perfect submarine garden of wondrous beauty.
Through the shrubs, branches, ferns and sponges of coral, the brilliantly col-
ored fish of the Southern seas sport like gold-fish in some immense aquarium.

We draw out our chairs within the protection of the almond-tree, and watch
the sun sink slowly to a level with the masts of a bark that is bound for Java
and the Borneoan coasts. The black, dead lava of our island becomes molten
for the time, and the flakes of salt left on the coral reef by the out-going tide
are filled with suggestions of the gold of my Idahoan home. A faint breeze
rustles among the long, fan-like leaves of the palm, and brings out the rich
yellow tints with their background of green. A clear, sweet aroma comes from
out the almond-tree. The red sun and the white sheets of the bark sail away
together for the Spice Islands of the South Pacific.

We sleep in a room in the heart of the light-house. The stairway leading
to it is so steep that we find it necessary to hold on to a knotted rope as we
ascend. Hundreds of little birds, no larger than sparrows, dash by the windows,
flying into the face of the gale that rages during the night, keeping up all the
time a sharp, high note that sounds like wind blowing on telegraph wires.

Every morning, at six o'clock, Ah Ming clambers up the perpendicular stair-
way, with tea and toast. We swallow it hurriedly, wrap a sarong about us, and
take a dip in the sea, the while keeping our eyes open for sharks. Often, after a
' bath, while stretched out in a long chair, we see the black fins of a man-eater
cruising just outside the reef. I do not know that I ever hit one, but I used a
good deal of lead firing at them.