trip of inspection, recognized several of his employees dead among a a dozen native victims who were left unburied, as none of their friends was able to look after them. Dozens increased to scores and hundreds as a day's total of fatal cases. Trucks, rushing through the streets, carrying loads of dead wrapped only in mats, became an almost hourly

Occurrence.

What was done to control the epidemic? Some of us attended a meeting at the office of the colonial doctor, and found there the doctor, the mayor, the bishop of the Roman Catholic church, some of the Mormon missionaries, and a few Americans, including Mr. Layton, the United States consul. Mr. Layton's wife was very ill, and he had also at the consulate, Dr. Williams (American dentist and vice-consul for Great Britain) and Mrs. Williams, both stricken by the epidemic. Though thus handicapped, Mr. Layton was very energetic in the work of relief.

At this meeting the town was districted, each of us being assigned to certain streets. We called on the people, and, where they were not being cared for properly, we left the medicine secured from the hospital, with directions in the native language as to use of same. We also gave orders on the stores for condensed milk. Later on, the citizens, among whom Americans were especially active, distributed great quantities of food throughout the islands. This was paid for by donations of individuals, Chinese merchants among them, and on the order of the mayor. Only the best things are said of the work of the mayor throughout the whole campaign of relief.

On the theory that certain cases could be better cared for in a hospital, Lieutenant McCreery, a New Zealander who was in Tahiti for the benefit of his health, fitted up beds in the old barracks, where he, with the assistance of several Americans, cared for upward of two hundred natives. The government physician visited the place at intervals. That the sick natives benefited greatly by the energetic, unselfish work of Lieutenant McCreery and his aides, is beyond question. An ambulance was fitted up on a small truck.

When it came down the street flying the Red Cross flags, it gave new hope. This flag meant much to those of us who knew what the Red Cross signifies, and it came to mean much to the natives as well. Though not directed by the Red Cross society, the work of relief was nevertheless worthy of praise.

The clergy, including the head of the French Protestant Chapel, as well as the head of the native Protestant organization, were indefatigable in their efforts to relieve the sick.

By a strange trick of fate, there came, at almost the outbreak of the epidemic, a series of earthquakes, something almost unknown in Tahiti. No damage was done to property by the quakes, yet their frequent occurrence alarmed the natives, if not Californians. Coming almost hourly for a few days, they then subsided gradually. Our hotel proprietor did not abate uneasiness by stating that such shocks occurred at intervals for a few months prior to the awful catastrophe of Saint Pierre. He, a native of Martinique, had left that Island not long before the destruction of its capital by the eruption of Mont Pelee.

On the mountainside at Papeete is the lookout station where, from dawn to dark, Patrick Burns watched for passing vessels. Thither we had often strolled and, sitting on the veranda of the station, talked with Patrick in a mixture of English and the native. To hear him describe, and see him explain in pantomime, the incidents of the German bombardment of Papeete was a treat never to be forgotten.

He fell ill of the "flu," and no more signals were raised to tell that a steamer or schooner of this or that nationality was now sighted in the North or South, or now had entered the passage. Indeed, ships were few and no one thought much of their coming or going, except us stranded Americans who vainly hoped for news of some steamer (passenger or cargo) bound for San Francisco. With us, this was a topic of daily, even hourly, conversation.

One day, when it seemed that the epidemic had about spent its fury, it occurred to some official to raise a yellow flag where we had so often turned our eyes

OW and again we hear a great hue

Nand cry that Romance has been

destroyed in the rising flood of Commercialism. Fine old gentlemen, they of the old school who remember as well as if it were only yesterday when Robert Louis Stevenson was wont to drop in the Bank Exchange for a half hour's chat over a glass of wine-these gentlemen, I say, will tell you with something akin to a sob that "San Francisco isn't what it used to be before the fire." Coffee Dan's, China Town, the Coast, the Latin Quarter, all the old land marks of the days of Romance have fallen into the sordid hands of money-grubbing profiteers. The good old days are past. What nonsense! "The good old days are past," has been the slogan since Adam's time. Romance still exists. There is a little Chinese shop just off Grant avenue-Ah, that's a story for you!

Gregory Gardner was a man to whom sufficient money and twenty-four hours of leisure per day had introduced a variety of experiences. In consequence thereof, by the time he had reached the thirty mark, he had reconciled himself to the fact that Life had a tendency to repeat itself. It was from sheer ennui, no doubt, that he strayed into the little. Chinese curio store late one December afternoon. Why he selected that particular shop is a question. Certainly it bore no distinguishing characteristics from any other shop along Grant avenue. There was the usual display of Chinese lanterns, ivory carvings, and vases in the window.

Inside, a slant-eyed Oriental, who looked a thousand years old and was probably thirty-five, presided over the conglomeration of bamboo tables, grinning idols, tea sets, tapestries, and various other paraphernalia of Chinese origin. Gardner paused in front of a section of the counter upon which rested a display of carvings.

"How much for that?" he asked, pointing to a dragon cut out of a soft, jadegreen stone.

The wily Chinese gave it a dextrous touch which showed it to the best advantage before replying.

"It worth ten dollars, sir. Don't you think that is very cheap?"

"Twice too much," Gardner objected, "I'll give you five."

The clerk shook his head, smiling blandly. "Ten dollar."

"Make it eight," Gardner persisted.

This time the clerk laughed outright. His oblique eyes almost closed, his yellow cheeks puckered like frosted persimmons. With deliberation he placed the dragon back among the other carvings. "Ten dollar.

"Well, confound your impudence,' Gardner laughed. "Here's your ten, let me have it."

He counted out the sum-a bill and five silver dollars-and laid it on the edge of the counter. When he looked up, the clerk was staring at the dragon in a curious manner, his lower jaw hanging open, his skin taking on a dull green color in the dim, afternoon sunlight that filtered through the crowded window.