The Beachcomber of tradition parades his coral islet barefooted, bullying
guileless natives out of their copra, coco-nut oil and pearl-shell; his
chief diet, turtle and turtle eggs and fish; his drink, rum and coco-nut
milk--the latter only when the former is impossible. When a wreck happens
he becomes a potentate in pyjamas, and with his dusky wives, dressed in
bright vestiture, fares sumptuously. And though the ships from the isles
do not meet to "pour the wealth of ocean in tribute at his feet," he can
still "rush out of his lodgings and eat oysters in regular desperation."
A whack on his hardened head from the club of a jealous native is the
time-honoured fate of the typical Beachcomber.
Flotsam and jetsam make another class of Beachcomber by stimulating the
gaming instincts. Is there a human being, taking part in the rough and
tumble of the world, who can honestly make confession and say that he has
completely suffocated those inherent instincts of savagedom--joy and
patience in the chase, the longing for excitement and surprise, the crude
selfishness, the delight in getting something for nothing? Society
journals have informed me that titled dames have been known to sit out
long and wearisome evenings that they may obtain some paltry favour in a
cotillon.
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