For such are the things that have
made the white man inevitable. Oh, and one other thing--the white man
who wishes to be inevitable, must not merely despise the lesser breeds
and think a lot of himself; he must also fail to be too long on
imagination. He must not understand too well the instincts, customs
and mental processes of the blacks, the yellows, and the browns; for it
is not in such fashion that the white race has tramped its royal road
around the world.
Bertie Arkwright was not inevitable. He was too sensitive, too finely
strung, and he possessed too much imagination. The world was too much
with him. He projected himself too quiveringly into his environment.
Therefore, the last place in the world for him to come was the
Solomons. He did not come, expecting to stay. A five-weeks' stop-over
between steamers, he decided, would satisfy the call of the primitive
he felt thrumming the strings of his being. At least, so he told the
lady tourists on the Makembo, though in different terms; and they
worshipped him as a hero, for they were lady tourists and they would
know only the safety of the steamer's deck as she threaded her way
through the Solomons.
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