him of his gratitude expressed in tomatoes, and said I had never forgotten them.
Then
he mentioned islands which I could not find on my maps and tribes of
which I had never heard the name. He said that these dim isles were a
pearl-buyer's paradise. I asked him, naturally enough, why he wasted
his time in Singapore when he possessed the knowledge of such a place.
Smiling bitterly he replied, "Friend, a wooden leg is a great handicap
in places where your life may depend on a sprint. There are plenty of
pearls in those islands, sure, but as many cut-throats, jura-mentados
and pirates."
"Have you ever been there?" I asked.
"I
went there once with an ex-Navy diver on a small cargo steamer for the
round trip. We never went ashore, though, because of the tales we
heard. We were scared stiff. A dead pearl-buyer has no use for pearls,
and can't dicker for them once his head's cut off!"
I thought of the missus and the kids. I wanted to see them again.
"Then,
Leon," I said, half in earnest and half in jest, "by this bottle of
Schnapps and these gefuellte fish, I implore you to tell me how to get
there."
He
thought for a while. "Well," he said, "you have a good pair of legs and
anyhow the damned islands are no good to me. I make you a present of
them and of its bloody savages too. The white pearlers in Broome were
plenty savage for me.
"Then tell me where I can find the gift you have made me."
"Solo-Sumbungu,"
he said, "are the names of the islands, and Behn, Myer & Co., the
shipping people, will tell you how to get there."
Poor
Leon, he was a good sort, but a poor speller, and always mispronounced
strange words. However, the shipping agents understood what I wanted
and readily sold me a passage to "Solo-Sumbungu."
That was the last time Leon and I met. He eventually settled on Shark's Bay on the West Australian coast, became
