eel,
did he put by, hoping in vain for better prices than the best. In the
end he had to sell in order to pay his Chino creditors. He consigned
his whole collection to London for sale. Then did his belief in white
creation suffer final damage. He received less for his whole
consignment than once, if he had been quick to close, he could have got
for two or three of his best pearls.
The last I saw of Ohtami was when he was a deck-hand on my own pearling lugger, the Betty Pickle. "Ohtami,"
I said to him once in jest, "you for one know that I pay bigger prices
for pearls than any dealer in the world, even in London!"
"Stidah, Ttim," he
acquiesced with an expressionless face. For I was the trader who had
offered him the extravagant prices on which he had gambled his pride
and hate in luckier days.
The
other day I had a letter from a correspondent who had read my earlier
books. He wanted to sell me a coconut pearl. Now coconut pearls do not
come from coconuts, but from conch-shells, and some are handsome in
their way, though lustreless, and unlike the real pearl. The best of
them are large and well shaped and of a fine pink colour, and have a
certain value. But they are not interesting to the pearl dealer, even
if, as in this case, they have an interesting history, have belonged
for generations to an East Indian chieftain and are supposed to bring
good luck. But in the course of his letter my correspondent mentioned
the island of Palawan, and that name sent my mind wandering back over
the years until it came to rest
