On Wednesday afternoon Fijian time, Slater was poised to surf against Hawaiian Sebastian Zietz in a quarterfinal heat.
But to the Fijian (and to most South Sea races) the inducements for greater exertion are simply non-existent.
The Fijian—he who had escaped from the massacre of the Fedora—was the guide.
The wives of the Fijian chiefs consider it a sacred duty to suffer strangulation on the deaths of their husbands.
The Fijian will not do hard work if he has a chance to run away.
Even the rude Fijian award depended in some way on the satisfaction of the gods.
The Fijian dives for these among the reefs, a kind of work that suits him to a T.
But the most hopeful sign to me in these islands on the 180th meridian was the Fijian constabulary.
The daughter of the biggest living Fijian chief wandered about like an outcast.
Life on the highway was alluring, but, large as the Fijian is, his shadow is no protection.