The Sheriff of
Kona by Jack London
"You cannot escape liking the climate," Cudworth said, in reply to
my panegyric on the Kona coast. "I was a young fellow, just out of
college, when I came here eighteen years ago. I never went back,
except, of course, to visit. And I warn you, if you have some spot
dear to you on earth, not to linger here too long, else you will
find this dearer."
We had finished dinner, which had been served on the big lanai, the
one with a northerly exposure, though exposure is indeed a misnomer
in so delectable a climate.
The candles had been put out, and a slim, white-clad Japanese
slipped like a ghost through the silvery moonlight, presented us
with cigars, and faded away into the darkness of the bungalow. I
looked through a screen of banana and lehua trees, and down across
the guava scrub to the quiet sea a thousand feet beneath. For a
week, ever since I had landed from the tiny coasting-steamer, I had
been stopping with Cudworth, and during that time no wind had
ruffled that unvexed sea. True, there had been breezes, but they
were the gentlest zephyrs that ever blew through summer isles. They
were not winds; they were sighs--long, balmy sighs of a world at
"A lotus land," I said.
"Where each day is like every day, and every day is a paradise of
days," he answered. "Nothing ever happens. It is not too hot. It
is not too cold. It is always just right. Have you noticed how the
land and the sea breathe turn and turn about?"
Indeed, I had noticed that delicious rhythmic, breathing. Each
morning I had watched the sea-breeze begin at the shore and slowly
extend seaward as it blew the mildest, softest whiff of ozone to the
land. It played over the sea, just faintly darkening its surface,
with here and there and everywhere long lanes of calm, shifting,
changing, drifting, according to the capricious kisses of the
breeze. And each evening I had watched the sea breath die away to
heavenly calm, and heard the land breath softly make its way through
the coffee trees and monkey-pods.
"It is a land of perpetual calm," I said. "Does it ever blow here?-
-ever really blow? You know what I mean."
Cudworth shook his head and pointed eastward.
"How can it blow, with a barrier like that to stop it?"
Far above towered the huge bulks of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, seeming
to blot out half the starry sky. Two miles and a half above our
heads they reared their own heads, white with snow that the tropic
sun had failed to melt.
"Thirty miles away, right now, I'll wager, it is blowing forty miles
I smiled incredulously.
Cudworth stepped to the lanai telephone. He called up, in
succession, Waimea, Kohala, and Hamakua. Snatches of his
conversation told me that the wind was blowing: "Rip-snorting and
back-jumping, eh? . . . How long? . . . Only a week? . . . Hello,
Abe, is that you? . . . Yes, yes . . . You WILL plant coffee on the
Hamakua coast . . . Hang your wind-breaks! You should see MY
"Blowing a gale," he said to me, turning from hanging up the
receiver. "I always have to joke Abe on his coffee. He has five
hundred acres, and he's done marvels in wind-breaking, but how he
keeps the roots in the ground is beyond me. Blow? It always blows
on the Hamakua side. Kohala reports a schooner under double reefs
beating up the channel between Hawaii and Maui, and making heavy
weather of it."
"It is hard to realize," I said lamely. "Doesn't a little whiff of
it ever eddy around somehow, and get down here?"
"Not a whiff. Our land-breeze is absolutely of no kin, for it
begins this side of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. You see, the land
radiates its heat quicker than the sea, and so, at night, the land
breathes over the sea. In the day the land becomes warmer than the
sea, and the sea breathes over the land . . . Listen! Here comes
the land-breath now, the mountain wind."
I could hear it coming, rustling softly through the coffee trees,
stirring the monkey-pods, and sighing through the sugar-cane. On
the lanai the hush still reigned. Then it came, the first feel of
the mountain wind, faintly balmy, fragrant and spicy, and cool,
deliciously cool, a silken coolness, a wine-like coolness--cool as
only the mountain wind of Kona can be cool.
"Do you wonder that I lost my heart to Kona eighteen years ago?" he
demanded. "I could never leave it now. I think I should die. It
would be terrible. There was another man who loved it, even as I.
I think he loved it more, for he was born here on the Kona coast.
He was a great man, my best friend, my more than brother. But he
left it, and he did not die."
"Love?" I queried. "A woman?"
Cudworth shook his head.
"Nor will he ever come back, though his heart will be here until he
He paused and gazed down upon the beachlights of Kailua. I smoked
silently and waited.
"He was already in love . . . with his wife. Also, he had three
children, and he loved them. They are in Honolulu now. The boy is
going to college."
"Some rash act?" I questioned, after a time, impatiently.
He shook his head. "Neither guilty of anything criminal, nor
charged with anything criminal. He was the Sheriff of Kona."
"You choose to be paradoxical," I said.
"I suppose it does sound that way," he admitted, "and that is the
perfect hell of it."
He looked at me searchingly for a moment, and then abruptly took up
"He was a leper. No, he was not born with it--no one is born with
it; it came upon him. This man--what does it matter? Lyte Gregory
was his name. Every kamaina knows the story. He was straight
American stock, but he was built like the chieftains of old Hawaii.
He stood six feet three. His stripped weight was two hundred and
twenty pounds, not an ounce of which was not clean muscle or bone.
He was the strongest man I have ever seen. He was an athlete and a
giant. He was a god. He was my friend. And his heart and his soul
were as big and as fine as his body.
"I wonder what you would do if you saw your friend, your brother, on
the slippery lip of a precipice, slipping, slipping, and you were
able to do nothing. That was just it. I could do nothing. I saw
it coming, and I could do nothing. My God, man, what could I do?
There it was, malignant and incontestable, the mark of the thing on
his brow. No one else saw it. It was because I loved him so, I do
believe, that I alone saw it. I could not credit the testimony of
my senses. It was too incredibly horrible. Yet there it was, on
his brow, on his ears. I had seen it, the slight puff of the
earlobes--oh, so imperceptibly slight. I watched it for months.
Then, next, hoping against hope, the darkening of the skin above
both eyebrows--oh, so faint, just like the dimmest touch of sunburn.
I should have thought it sunburn but that there was a shine to it,
such an invisible shine, like a little highlight seen for a moment
and gone the next. I tried to believe it was sunburn, only I could
not. I knew better. No one noticed it but me. No one ever noticed
it except Stephen Kaluna, and I did not know that till afterward.
But I saw it coming, the whole damnable, unnamable awfulness of it;
but I refused to think about the future. I was afraid. I could
not. And of nights I cried over it.
"He was my friend. We fished sharks on Niihau together. We hunted
wild cattle on Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. We broke horses and branded
steers on the Carter Ranch. We hunted goats through Haleakala. He
taught me diving and surfing until I was nearly as clever as he, and
he was cleverer than the average Kanaka. I have seen him dive in
fifteen fathoms, and he could stay down two minutes. He was an
amphibian and a mountaineer. He could climb wherever a goat dared
climb. He was afraid of nothing. He was on the wrecked Luga, and
he swam thirty miles in thirty-six hours in a heavy sea. He could
fight his way out through breaking combers that would batter you and
me to a jelly. He was a great, glorious man-god. We went through
the Revolution together. We were both romantic loyalists. He was
shot twice and sentenced to death. But he was too great a man for
the republicans to kill. He laughed at them. Later, they gave him
honour and made him Sheriff of Kona. He was a simple man, a boy
that never grew up. His was no intricate brain pattern. He had no
twists nor quirks in his mental processes. He went straight to the
point, and his points were always simple.
"And he was sanguine. Never have I known so confident a man, nor a
man so satisfied and happy. He did not ask anything from life.
There was nothing left to be desired. For him life had no arrears.
He had been paid in full, cash down, and in advance. What more
could he possibly desire than that magnificent body, that iron
constitution, that immunity from all ordinary ills, and that lowly
wholesomeness of soul? Physically he was perfect. He had never
been sick in his life. He did not know what a headache was. When I
was so afflicted he used to look at me in wonder, and make me laugh
with his clumsy attempts at sympathy. He did not understand such a
thing as a headache. He could not understand. Sanguine? No
wonder. How could he be otherwise with that tremendous vitality and
"Just to show you what faith he had in his glorious star, and, also,
what sanction he had for that faith. He was a youngster at the
time--I had just met him--when he went into a poker game at Wailuku.
There was a big German in it, Schultz his name was, and he played a
brutal, domineering game. He had had a run of luck as well, and he
was quite insufferable, when Lyte Gregory dropped in and took a
hand. The very first hand it was Schultz's blind. Lyte came in, as
well as the others, and Schultz raised them out--all except Lyte.
He did not like the German's tone, and he raised him back. Schultz
raised in turn, and in turn Lyte raised Schultz. So they went, back
and forth. The stakes were big. And do you know what Lyte held? A
pair of kings and three little clubs. It wasn't poker. Lyte wasn't
playing poker. He was playing his optimism. He didn't know what
Schultz held, but he raised and raised until he made Schultz squeal,
and Schultz held three aces all the time. Think of it! A man with
a pair of kings compelling three aces to see before the draw!
"Well, Schultz called for two cards. Another German was dealing,
Schultz's friend at that. Lyte knew then that he was up against
three of a kind. Now what did he do? What would you have done?
Drawn three cards and held up the kings, of course. Not Lyte. He
was playing optimism. He threw the kings away, held up the three
little clubs, and drew two cards. He never looked at them. He
looked across at Schultz to bet, and Schultz did bet, big. Since he
himself held three aces he knew he had Lyte, because he played Lyte
for threes, and, necessarily, they would have to be smaller threes.
Poor Schultz! He was perfectly correct under the premises. His
mistake was that he thought Lyte was playing poker. They bet back
and forth for five minutes, until Schultz's certainty began to ooze
out. And all the time Lyte had never looked at his two cards, and
Schultz knew it. I could see Schultz think, and revive, and splurge
with his bets again. But the strain was too much for him."
"'Hold on, Gregory,' he said at last. 'I've got you beaten from the
start. I don't want any of your money. I've got--'"
"'Never mind what you've got,' Lyte interrupted. 'You don't know
what I've got. I guess I'll take a look.'"
"He looked, and raised the German a hundred dollars. Then they went
at it again, back and forth and back and forth, until Schultz
weakened and called, and laid down his three aces. Lyte faced his
five cards. They were all black. He had drawn two more clubs. Do
you know, he just about broke Schultz's nerve as a poker player. He
never played in the same form again. He lacked confidence after
that, and was a bit wobbly."
"'But how could you do it?' I asked Lyte afterwards. 'You knew he
had you beaten when he drew two cards. Besides, you never looked at
your own draw.'"
"'I didn't have to look,' was Lyte's answer. 'I knew they were two
clubs all the time. They just had to be two clubs. Do you think I
was going to let that big Dutchman beat me? It was impossible that
he should beat me. It is not my way to be beaten. I just have to
win. Why, I'd have been the most surprised man in this world if
they hadn't been all clubs.'"
"That was Lyte's way, and maybe it will help you to appreciate his
colossal optimism. As he put it he just had to succeed, to fare
well, to prosper. And in that same incident, as in ten thousand
others, he found his sanction. The thing was that he did succeed,
did prosper. That was why he was afraid of nothing. Nothing could
ever happen to him. He knew it, because nothing had ever happened
to him. That time the Luga was lost and he swam thirty miles, he
was in the water two whole nights and a day. And during all that
terrible stretch of time he never lost hope once, never once doubted
the outcome. He just knew he was going to make the land. He told
me so himself, and I know it was the truth.
"Well, that is the kind of a man Lyte Gregory was. He was of a
different race from ordinary, ailing mortals. He was a lordly
being, untouched by common ills and misfortunes. Whatever he wanted
he got. He won his wife--one of the Caruthers, a little beauty--
from a dozen rivals. And she settled down and made him the finest
wife in the world. He wanted a boy. He got it. He wanted a girl
and another boy. He got them. And they were just right, without
spot or blemish, with chests like little barrels, and with all the
inheritance of his own health and strength.
"And then it happened. The mark of the beast was laid upon him. I
watched it for a year. It broke my heart. But he did not know it,
nor did anybody else guess it except that cursed hapa-haole, Stephen
Kaluna. He knew it, but I did not know that he did. And--yes--Doc
Strowbridge knew it. He was the federal physician, and he had
developed the leper eye. You see, part of his business was to
examine suspects and order them to the receiving station at
Honolulu. And Stephen Kaluna had developed the leper eye. The
disease ran strong in his family, and four or five of his relatives
were already on Molokai.
"The trouble arose over Stephen Kaluna's sister. When she became
suspect, and before Doc Strowbridge could get hold of her, her
brother spirited her away to some hiding-place. Lyte was Sheriff of
Kona, and it was his business to find her.
"We were all over at Hilo that night, in Ned Austin's. Stephen
Kaluna was there when we came in, by himself, in his cups, and
quarrelsome. Lyte was laughing over some joke--that huge, happy
laugh of a giant boy. Kaluna spat contemptuously on the floor.
Lyte noticed, so did everybody; but he ignored the fellow. Kaluna
was looking for trouble. He took it as a personal grudge that Lyte
was trying to apprehend his sister. In half a dozen ways he
advertised his displeasure at Lyte's presence, but Lyte ignored him.
I imagined Lyte was a bit sorry for him, for the hardest duty of his
office was the apprehension of lepers. It is not a nice thing to go
in to a man's house and tear away a father, mother, or child, who
has done no wrong, and to send such a one to perpetual banishment on
Molokai. Of course, it is necessary as a protection to society, and
Lyte, I do believe, would have been the first to apprehend his own
father did he become suspect.
"Finally, Kaluna blurted out: 'Look here, Gregory, you think you're
going to find Kalaniweo, but you're not.'
"Kalaniweo was his sister. Lyte glanced at him when his name was
called, but he made no answer. Kaluna was furious. He was working
himself up all the time.
"'I'll tell you one thing,' he shouted. 'You'll be on Molokai
yourself before ever you get Kalaniweo there. I'll tell you what
you are. You've no right to be in the company of honest men.
You've made a terrible fuss talking about your duty, haven't you?
You've sent many lepers to Molokai, and knowing all the time you
belonged there yourself.'
"I'd seen Lyte angry more than once, but never quite so angry as at
that moment. Leprosy with us, you know, is not a thing to jest
about. He made one leap across the floor, dragging Kaluna out of
his chair with a clutch on his neck. He shook him back and forth
savagely, till you could hear the half-caste's teeth rattling.
"'What do you mean?' Lyte was demanding. 'Spit it out, man, or I'll
choke it out of you!'
"You know, in the West there is a certain phrase that a man must
smile while uttering. So with us of the islands, only our phrase is
related to leprosy. No matter what Kaluna was, he was no coward.
As soon as Lyte eased the grip on his throat he answered:-
"'I'll tell you what I mean. You are a leper yourself.'
Lyte suddenly flung the half-caste sideways into a chair, letting
him down easily enough. Then Lyte broke out into honest, hearty
laughter. But he laughed alone, and when he discovered it he looked
around at our faces. I had reached his side and was trying to get
him to come away, but he took no notice of me. He was gazing,
fascinated, at Kaluna, who was brushing at his own throat in a
flurried, nervous way, as if to brush off the contamination of the
fingers that had clutched him. The action was unreasoned, genuine.
"Lyte looked around at us, slowly passing from face to face.
"'My God, fellows! My God!' he said.
"He did not speak it. It was more a hoarse whisper of fright and
horror. It was fear that fluttered in his throat, and I don't think
that ever in his life before he had known fear.
"Then his colossal optimism asserted itself, and he laughed again.
"'A good joke--whoever put it up,' he said. 'The drinks are on me.
I had a scare for a moment. But, fellows, don't do it again, to
anybody. It's too serious. I tell you I died a thousand deaths in
that moment. I thought of my wife and the kids, and . . . '
"His voice broke, and the half-caste, still throat-brushing, drew
his eyes. He was puzzled and worried.
"'John,' he said, turning toward me.
"His jovial, rotund voice rang in my ears. But I could not answer.
I was swallowing hard at that moment, and besides, I knew my face
didn't look just right.
"'John,' he called again, taking a step nearer.
"He called timidly, and of all nightmares of horrors the most
frightful was to hear timidity in Lyte Gregory's voice.
"'John, John, what does it mean?' he went on, still more timidly.
'It's a joke, isn't it? John, here's my hand. If I were a leper
would I offer you my hand? Am I a leper, John?'
"He held out his hand, and what in high heaven or hell did I care?
He was my friend. I took his hand, though it cut me to the heart to
see the way his face brightened.
"'It was only a joke, Lyte,' I said. 'We fixed it up on you. But
you're right. It's too serious. We won't do it again.'
"He did not laugh this time. He smiled, as a man awakened from a
bad dream and still oppressed by the substance of the dream.
"'All right, then,' he said. 'Don't do it again, and I'll stand for
the drinks. But I may as well confess that you fellows had me going
south for a moment. Look at the way I've been sweating.'
"He sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he started to
step toward the bar.
"'It is no joke,' Kaluna said abruptly. I looked murder at him, and
I felt murder, too. But I dared not speak or strike. That would
have precipitated the catastrophe which I somehow had a mad hope of
"'It is no joke,' Kaluna repeated. 'You are a leper, Lyte Gregory,
and you've no right putting your hands on honest men's flesh--on the
clean flesh of honest men.'
"Then Gregory flared up.
"'The joke has gone far enough! Quit it! Quit it, I say, Kaluna,
or I'll give you a beating!'
"'You undergo a bacteriological examination,' Kaluna answered, 'and
then you can beat me--to death, if you want to. Why, man, look at
yourself there in the glass. You can see it. Anybody can see it.
You're developing the lion face. See where the skin is darkened
there over your eyes.
"Lyte peered and peered, and I saw his hands trembling.
"'I can see nothing,' he said finally, then turned on the hapa-
haole. 'You have a black heart, Kaluna. And I am not ashamed to
say that you have given me a scare that no man has a right to give
another. I take you at your word. I am going to settle this thing
now. I am going straight to Doc Strowbridge. And when I come back,
"He never looked at us, but started for the door.
"'You wait here, John,' he said, waving me back from accompanying
"We stood around like a group of ghosts.
"'It is the truth,' Kaluna said. 'You could see it for yourselves.'
"They looked at me, and I nodded. Harry Burnley lifted his glass to
his lips, but lowered it untasted. He spilled half of it over the
bar. His lips were trembling like a child that is about to cry.
Ned Austin made a clatter in the ice-chest. He wasn't looking for
anything. I don't think he knew what he was doing. Nobody spoke.
Harry Burnley's lips were trembling harder than ever. Suddenly,
with a most horrible, malignant expression he drove his fist into
Kaluna's face. He followed it up. We made no attempt to separate
them. We didn't care if he killed the half-caste. It was a
terrible beating. We weren't interested. I don't even remember
when Burnley ceased and let the poor devil crawl away. We were all
"Doc Strowbridge told me about it afterward. He was working late
over a report when Lyte came into his office. Lyte had already
recovered his optimism, and came swinging in, a trifle angry with
Kaluna to be sure, but very certain of himself. 'What could I do?'
Doc asked me. 'I knew he had it. I had seen it coming on for
months. I couldn't answer him. I couldn't say yes. I don't mind
telling you I broke down and cried. He pleaded for the
bacteriological test. "Snip out a piece, Doc," he said, over and
over. "Snip out a piece of skin and make the test."
"The way Doc Strowbridge cried must have convinced Lyte. The
Claudine was leaving next morning for Honolulu. We caught him when
he was going aboard. You see, he was headed for Honolulu to give
himself up to the Board of Health. We could do nothing with him.
He had sent too many to Molokai to hang back himself. We argued for
Japan. But he wouldn't hear of it. 'I've got to take my medicine,
fellows,' was all he would say, and he said it over and over. He
was obsessed with the idea.
"He wound up all his affairs from the Receiving Station at Honolulu,
and went down to Molokai. He didn't get on well there. The
resident physician wrote us that he was a shadow of his old self.
You see he was grieving about his wife and the kids. He knew we
were taking care of them, but it hurt him just the same. After six
months or so I went down to Molokai. I sat on one side a plate-
glass window, and he on the other. We looked at each other through
the glass and talked through what might be called a speaking tube.
But it was hopeless. He had made up his mind to remain. Four
mortal hours I argued. I was exhausted at the end. My steamer was
whistling for me, too.
"But we couldn't stand for it. Three months later we chartered the
schooner Halcyon. She was an opium smuggler, and she sailed like a
witch. Her master was a squarehead who would do anything for money,
and we made a charter to China worth his while. He sailed from San
Francisco, and a few days later we took out Landhouse's sloop for a
cruise. She was only a five-ton yacht, but we slammed her fifty
miles to windward into the north-east trade. Seasick? I never
suffered so in my life. Out of sight of land we picked up the
Halcyon, and Burnley and I went aboard.
"We ran down to Molokai, arriving about eleven at night. The
schooner hove to and we landed through the surf in a whale-boat at
Kalawao--the place, you know, where Father Damien died. That
squarehead was game. With a couple of revolvers strapped on him he
came right along. The three of us crossed the peninsula to
Kalaupapa, something like two miles. Just imagine hunting in the
dead of night for a man in a settlement of over a thousand lepers.
You see, if the alarm was given, it was all off with us. It was
strange ground, and pitch dark. The leper's dogs came out and bayed
at us, and we stumbled around till we got lost.
"The squarehead solved it. He led the way into the first detached
house. We shut the door after us and struck a light. There were
six lepers. We routed them up, and I talked in native. What I
wanted was a kokua. A kokua is, literally, a helper, a native who
is clean that lives in the settlement and is paid by the Board of
Health to nurse the lepers, dress their sores, and such things. We
stayed in the house to keep track of the inmates, while the
squarehead led one of them off to find a kokua. He got him, and he
brought him along at the point of his revolver. But the kokua was
all right. While the squarehead guarded the house, Burnley and I
were guided by the kokua to Lyte's house. He was all alone.
"'I thought you fellows would come,' Lyte said. 'Don't touch me,
John. How's Ned, and Charley, and all the crowd? Never mind, tell
me afterward. I am ready to go now. I've had nine months of it.
Where's the boat?'
"We started back for the other house to pick up the squarehead. But
the alarm had got out. Lights were showing in the houses, and doors
were slamming. We had agreed that there was to be no shooting
unless absolutely necessary, and when we were halted we went at it
with our fists and the butts of our revolvers. I found myself
tangled up with a big man. I couldn't keep him off me, though twice
I smashed him fairly in the face with my fist. He grappled with me,
and we went down, rolling and scrambling and struggling for grips.
He was getting away with me, when some one came running up with a
lantern. Then I saw his face. How shall I describe the horror of
it. It was not a face--only wasted or wasting features--a living
ravage, noseless, lipless, with one ear swollen and distorted,
hanging down to the shoulder. I was frantic. In a clinch he hugged
me close to him until that ear flapped in my face. Then I guess I
went insane. It was too terrible. I began striking him with my
revolver. How it happened I don't know, but just as I was getting
clear he fastened upon me with his teeth. The whole side of my hand
was in that lipless mouth. Then I struck him with the revolver butt
squarely between the eyes, and his teeth relaxed."
Cudworth held his hand to me in the moonlight, and I could see the
scars. It looked as if it had been mangled by a dog.
"Weren't you afraid?" I asked.
"I was. Seven years I waited. You know, it takes that long for the
disease to incubate. Here in Kona I waited, and it did not come.
But there was never a day of those seven years, and never a night,
that I did not look out on . . . on all this . . . " His voice
broke as he swept his eyes from the moon-bathed sea beneath to the
snowy summits above. "I could not bear to think of losing it, of
never again beholding Kona. Seven years! I stayed clean. But that
is why I am single. I was engaged. I could not dare to marry while
I was in doubt. She did not understand. She went away to the
States and married. I have never seen her since.
"Just at the moment I got clear of the leper policeman there was a
rush and clatter of hoofs like a cavalry charge. It was the
squarehead. He had been afraid of a rumpus and he had improved his
time by making those blessed lepers he was guarding saddle up four
horses. We were ready for him. Lyte had accounted for three
kokuas, and between us we untangled Burnley from a couple more. The
whole settlement was in an uproar by that time, and as we dashed
away somebody opened upon us with a Winchester. It must have been
Jack McVeigh, the superintendent of Molokai.
"That was a ride! Leper horses, leper saddles, leper bridles,
pitch-black darkness, whistling bullets, and a road none of the
best. And the squarehead's horse was a mule, and he didn't know how
to ride, either. But we made the whaleboat, and as we shoved off
through the surf we could hear the horses coming down the hill from
"You're going to Shanghai. You look Lyte Gregory up. He is
employed in a German firm there. Take him out to dinner. Open up
wine. Give him everything of the best, but don't let him pay for
anything. Send the bill to me. His wife and the kids are in
Honolulu, and he needs the money for them. I know. He sends most
of his salary, and lives like an anchorite. And tell him about
Kona. There's where his heart is. Tell him all you can about