The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

CHAPTER XXI.
THE VISIT OF THE FRENCH SUB-CONSUL.
UPON leaving the trading port of Fungi, Florence
repaired down to the solitary cabin of which the
launch boasted to make her toilet. Her small crew
had been carefully chosen, the golden key of money
unlocking every door in her path. The crew
had received their instructions. A speedy return
was anticipated, and the pay—the principal feature
of which lay in the generous bonus due upon
a safe and satisfactory return—settled. The
longer they remained upon Tuamonti, the less
would be their drawing at the conclusion of the
cruise.
Great excitement prevailed at the island as the
small craft, with the tricolour flying gallantly at
the single mast, drew near. Another highly coloured
ensign flew at the stern. The Consul evidently
affected his own house flag.
The French official proved himself a dapper little
figure. Tight-waisted, as became a well-dressed
official, well-trimmed of black beard, somewhat
heavy black eyebrows, and a great propensity to
take advantage of the custom to retain uniform
hats on all occasions other than those of church and
bed.
THE FOOT OF TIME
His French was evidently too scholarly for the
ears of but pigeon-speaking dark men; at any rate,
no little difficulty was experienced in making out
what the little official said. He was evidently an
administrator of importance, though he made it
plain at the outset (as plain as it was possible to
do under the circumstances) that the visit was but
a preliminary to the real official call of his senior,
who was due shortly. The man's importance, however,
could easily be gauged by the launch bearing
the representative carrying his own flag, the high
tones of which impressed the natives more than any
prosaic white ensign of the British Navy, or any
such lesser looking contraption.
Also, the man carried himself with as great an
air as had ever hitherto been known. The officials
at Butthey were used were of a somewhat fussy
nature.
But the crowning seal to his greatness was, perhaps
afforded by the small ship carrying a devil devil
in the shape of a small gun mounted on the poop.
True, it was but a toy in the world of guns, but,
as was proven later, its fifteen pounds' cost could
be put to some practical use by those on board.
The brass barrel glittered in the tropical sun, and
the first voice from it (sent out, one supposes, by
way of salutation) being the very first report of
that nature ever heard on Tuamonti, sent the
natives into raptures of excited wonder. A stray
island dog, very much the worse for wear, offered
an attractive target to those behind the aforementioned
gun, and considering it true game for
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