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Tom didn’t let grass grow under his feet, and he went at it all with a rush, beginning first of all with Iosefo, the Kanaka pastor. Natives are never so helpful and willing as when you’re egging them on to do something they shouldn’t, and he fell in with the preaching idea, and wanted to start right away. But they finally decided it had better be a monthly affair, so the natives shouldn’t lose track of it, and Iosefo commenced the first Sunday. Anybody that gave away Old Dibs was to have his house burned in this world and his soul in the next; and Iosefo laid it on thick about our all loving him, and what a friend he has proved himself to the island; and when he reached the point where he announced that Old Dibs had contributed fifty dollars toward the fund for the new church, you could feel a rustle go through the whole congregation, and a general gasp of satisfaction. Iosefo drew a fancy picture of Judas hanging himself, and brought it up to date with Old Dibs, and what a scaly thing it was to do anyway. He let himself rip in all directions, even to the persecutions in what he called the White Country, which he said Old Dibs had endured for religion’s sake, and how he had been thrown to the lions in the Colossium.

Old Dibs sat there as smug as smug, little knowing how the agony was being piled on his bald head; and just when Iosefo was making him cow the lions with a glance, Old Dibs took the specs off his nose and wiped them, while everybody was worked up tremendous to know whether he had been eat or not. Iosefo was no slouch when he once got his hand in, and carried it over to the next number like a story in a magazine, the Kanakas all going out buzzing, wishing it was Sunday week, and eyeing Old Dibs with veneration.

The platform was number two on the list, and me and Tom, with the measurements we had taken in the tree, made a very neat job of it, and painted it green topside and bottom. We laid it together in Tom’s shed, and got in Old Dibs to see if it would fit him, which it did beautiful, being six foot six by two and a half. Tom explained we’d put a natty railing around it, likewise painted green, and carry a width of fine netting below, so that pillows or things shouldn’t slip overboard. Tom was hurt at Old Dibs not being more enthusiastic, and finally said: “Hell! Mr. Smith, what are you sticking at?”

“It’ll never sustain the coin,” said Old Dibs, jouncing up and down on it like a dancing hippopotamus.

“You weren’t meaning to take that up, too?” cries Tom.

“I thought that was part of the scheme?” said Old Dibs. “Why, you said a whole cow yourself. Didn’t he, Bill?”

This was a facer for Tom, but all he asked was how much money there was.

“It weighs hundreds of pounds,” said Old Dibs, very sly, and not wanting to name figgers.

We neither of us could very well blame the old gentleman for not wanting to trust us with a quarter of a million dollars while he was up a tree like a canary bird; and so Tom or I didn’t say what was in our minds, which was to bury it somewheres. In fact, there was a longish silence, till I suggested using some two-inch iron pipe I had at home, instead of the light boat spars Tom had cut for the purpose.

“And as for the money,” said I, “why not have a locker for it at each end, with the weight resting against the forks, and maybe a little room extra for Mr. Smith’s toothbrush and toilet tackle?” I minded the size of the suit case I had last seen the stuff in, and showed Tom about what was wanted.