Chapter LIII. Farming in Polynesia
THE planters were both whole-souled fellows; but, in other respects, as unlike as possible. One was a tall, robust Yankee, hern in the backwoods of Maine, sallow, and with a long face;--the other was a short little Cockney, who had first clapped his eyes on the Monument. The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate from every word beginning with one. The latter, though not the tallest man in the world, was a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five. His cheeks were dyed with the fine Saxon red, burned deeper from his roving life: his blue eye opened well, and a profusion of fair hair curled over a well-shaped head. But Zeke was no beauty. A strong, ugly man, he was well adapted for manual labour; and that wa
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