With the last drop done we all file out to join the patient throng within the deep gloom of the cocoanuts. Karl, son of David, my right-hand man, shoots the projector light out upon the screen. The babble of voices suddenly stops. The film comes on. In Samoan Karl calls out as best he may each title as it flashes by- which, with their Samoan slant, vivify the picture a thousand fold.
Comments begin to fly.
By lies he keeps the girl and man apart. For a long, long hour the audience hovers between ecstacy and deep despair, but finally a crash, a thunderclap of exultation rings out upon the night. He smiles at her. If our girls were only half so kind. Half a minute's walk through forests of mangoes and cocoanuts brings me to the laboratory which we built deep-set among the trees.