_Vailima_, _August_ 23_rd_, 1893.
MY DEAR DR. CONAN DOYLE,—I am reposing after a somewhat severe experience
upon which I think it my duty to report to you. Immediately after dinner
this evening it occurred to me to re-narrate to my native overseer Simelè
your story of _The Engineer’s Thumb_. And, sir, I have done it. It was
necessary, I need hardly say, to go somewhat farther afield than you have
done. To explain (for instance) what a railway is, what a steam hammer,
what a coach and horse, what coining, what a criminal, and what the
police. I pass over other and no less necessary explanations. But I did
actually succeed; and if you could have seen the drawn, anxious features
and the bright, feverish eyes of Simelè, you would have (for the moment
at least) tasted glory. You might perhaps think that, were you to come
to Samoa, you might be introduced as the Author of _The Engineer’s
Thumb_. Disabuse yourself. They do not know what it is to make up a
story. _The Engineer’s Thumb_ (God forgive me) was narrated as a piece
of actual and factual history. Nay, and more, I who write to you have
had the indiscretion to perpetrate a trifling piece of fiction entitled
_The Bottle Imp_. Parties who come up to visit my unpretentious mansion,
after having admired the ceilings by Vanderputty and the tapestry by
Gobbling, manifest towards the end a certain uneasiness which proves them
to be fellows of an infinite delicacy. They may be seen to shrug a brown
shoulder, to roll up a speaking eye, and at last secret bursts from them:
‘Where is the bottle?’ Alas, my friends (I feel tempted to say), you
will find it by the Engineer’s Thumb! Talofa-soifuia.
Oa’u, O lau no moni, O Tusitala.
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