But the audience had a curious, fidgety look, which I knew not how to account for until we ascertained that a sermon with the eighth commandment for a text was being preached.
It seemed that there lived an Englishman in the district, who, like our friends, the planters, was cultivating Tombez potatoes for the Papeetee market.
In spite of all his precautions, the natives were in the habit of making nocturnal forays into his inclosure, and carrying off the potatoes.

One night he fired a fowling-piece, charged with pepper and salt, at several shadows which he discovered stealing across his premises.

They fled.

But it was like seasoning anything else; the knaves stole again with a greater relish than ever; and the very next night, he caught a party in the act of roasting a basketful of potatoes under his own cooking-shed.

At last, he stated his grievances to the missionary; who, for the benefit of his congregation, preached the sermon we heard.
Now, there were no thieves in Martair; but then, the people of the valley were bribed to be honest.