Читать книгу: «In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories», страница 13
“It was like the companions of Odysseus devouring the oxen of the Sun,” I said.
“Very likely,” replied the beach-comber. “Never heard of the parties. They’re superstitious beggars, these Kanekas. You’ve heard of buying a thing ‘for a song’? Well, I got my station for a whistle. They believe that spirits twitter and whistle, and you’ll hardly get them to go out at night, even with a boiled potato in their hands, which they think good against ghosts, for fear of hearing the bogies. So I just went whistling, ‘Bonny Dundee’ at nights all round the location I fancied, and after a week of that, not a nigger would go near it. They made it over to me, gratis, with an address on my courage and fortitude. I gave them some blankets in; and that’s how real property used to change hands in the Pacific.”
