But an instinct stronger than fear drove him out into the open: his
stock of canned food ran low, and large red ants got into his flour. He
needed cocoanuts and breadfruit and baby _fekes_ (or young octopi). He
knew that numerous succulent infant _fekes_ lurked in holes in his own
cove, and thither he went by night to pull them from their homes.
Hitherto he had encountered only small _fekes_, with tender tentacles
only a few feet long; but that night Mr. Pottle had the misfortune to
plunge his naked arm into the watery nest when the father of the family
was at home. He realized his error too late.
A clammy tentacle, as long as a fire hose, as strong as the arm of a
gorilla, coiled round his arm, and his scream was cut short as the giant
devil-fish dragged him below the water.
The water was shallow. Mr. Pottle got a foothold, forced his head above
water, and began to yell for help and struggle for his life.
The chances against a nude Ohio barber of 140 pounds in a wrestling
match with an adult octopus are exactly a thousand to one. The giant
_feke_ so despised his opponent that he used only two of his eight
muscular arms. In their slimy, relentless clutch Mr. Pottle felt his
strength going fast. As his favorite authors would have put it, "it
began to look bad for Mr. Pottle."
The thought that Mr. Pottle thought would be his last on this earth was,
"I wouldn't mind being eaten by cannibals, but to be drowned by a trick
fish----"
Mr. Pottle threshed about in one final, frantic flounder; his strength
gave out; he shut his eyes.
He heard a shrill cry, a splashing in the water, felt himself clutched
about the neck from behind, and dragged away from the _feke_. He opened
his eyes and struggled weakly. One tentacle released its grip. Mr.
Pottle saw by the tropic moon's light that some large creature was doing
battle with the _feke_. It was a man, a large brown man who with a busy
ax hacked the gristly limbs from the _feke_ as fast as they wrapped
around him. Mr. Pottle staggered to the dry beach; a tentacle was still
wound tight round his shoulder, but there was no octopus at the other
end of it.
The angry noise of the devil-fish--for, when wounded, they snarl like
kicked curs--stopped. The victorious brown man strode out of the water
to where Mr. Pottle swayed on the moonlit sand. It was Mealy-mealy.
"Bad fishum!" said Mealy-mealy, with a grin.
"Good manum!" cried Mr. Pottle, heartily.
Here was romance, here was adventure, to be snatched from the jaws, so
to speak, of death by a cannibal! It was unheard of. But a disquieting
thought occurred to Mr. Pottle, and he voiced it.
"Mealy-mealy, why you save me? Why save you me? Why you me save?"
Mealy-mealy's grin seemed to fade, and in its place came another look
that made Mr. Pottle wish he were back in the anaconda grip of the
_feke_.
"My tribe hungry for long pig," growled Mealy-mealy. He seemed to be
trembling with some powerful emotion. Hunger?
Mr. Pottle knew where his only chance for escape lay.
"My tribe velly, velly, velly hungry, too," he cried. "Velly, velly,
velly near."
He thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a piercing school-boy
whistle. As if in answer to it there came a crashing and floundering in
the bushes. His bluff had worked only too well; it must be the fellow
man-eaters of Mealy-mealy.
Mr. Pottle turned and ran for his life. Fifty yards he sped, and then
realized that he did not hear the padding of bare feet on the sand
behind him or feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He dared to cast
a look over his shoulder. Far down the beach the moonlight showed him a
flying brown figure against the silver-white sand. It was Mealy-mealy,
and he was going in the opposite direction as fast as ever his legs
would take him.
Surprise drove fear temporarily from Mr. Pottle's mind as he watched the
big cannibal become a blur, then a speck, then nothing. As he watched
Mealy-mealy recede, he saw another dark figure emerge from the bush
where the noise had been, and move slowly out on the moon-strewn beach.
It was a baby wild pig. It sniffed at the ocean, squealed, and trotted
back into the bush.
As he gnawed his morning cocoanut, Mr. Pottle was still puzzled. He was
afraid of Mealy-mealy; that he admitted. But at the same time it was
quite clear that Mealy-mealy was afraid of him. He was excited and more
than a little gratified. What a book he could write! Should he call it
"Cannibal-Bound on O-pip-ee," or, "Cannibals Who have almost Eaten Me"?
Tiki Tiu's schooner would be coming for him very soon now,--he'd lost
track of the exact time,--and he would be almost reluctant to leave the
isle. Almost.
Mr. Pottle had another glimpse of a cannibal next day. Toward evening he
stole out to pick some supper from a breadfruit-tree not far from his
cave, a tree which produced particularly palatable _mei_ (or
breadfruit).
He drew his _pareu_ tight around him and slipped through the bushes; as
he neared the tree he saw another figure approaching it with equal
stealth from the opposite direction; the setting sun was reflected from
the burnished brown of the savage's shoulders. At the same time Mr.
Pottle spied the man, the man spied him. The savage stopped short,
wheeled about, and tore back in the direction from which he had come.
Mr. Pottle did not get a good look at his face, but he ran uncommonly
like Mealy-mealy.