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A Son Of The Sun
“Don’t tell them who I am,” Grief said, in Tahitian. “Did you ever sail for me?”
The man’s head nodded and his mouth opened, but before he could speak he was suppressed by a savage “Shut up!” from Watson, who was already in the sternsheets.
“I beg pardon,” Grief said. “I ought to have known better.”
“That’s all right,” Hall interposed. “The trouble is they’re too much talk and not enough work. Have to be severe with them, or they wouldn’t get enough shell to pay their grub.”
Grief nodded sympathetically. “I know them. Got a crew of them myself – the lazy swine. Got to drive them like niggers to get a half-day’s work out of them.”
“What was you sayin’ to him?” Gorman blurted in bluntly.
“I was asking how the shell was, and how deep they were diving.”
“Thick,” Hall took over the answering. “We’re working now in about ten fathom. It’s right out there, not a hundred yards off. Want to come along?”
Half the day Grief spent with the boats, and had lunch in the bungalow. In the afternoon he loafed, taking a siesta in the big living-room, reading some, and talking for half an hour with Mrs. Hall. After dinner, he played billiards with her husband. It chanced that Grief had never before encountered Swithin Hall, yet the latter’s fame as an expert at billiards was the talk of the beaches from Levuka to Honolulu. But the man Grief played with this night proved most indifferent at the game. His wife showed herself far cleverer with the cue.
When he went on board the Uncle Toby Grief routed Jackie-Jackie out of bed. He described the location of the barracks, and told the Tongan to swim softly around and have talk with the Kanakas. In two hours Jackie-Jackie was back. He shook his head as he stood dripping before Grief.
“Very funny t’ing,” he reported. “One white man stop all the time. He has big rifle. He lay in water and watch. Maybe twelve o’clock, other white man come and take rifle. First white man go to bed. Other man stop now with rifle. No good. Me cannot talk with Kanakas. Me come back.”
“By George!” Grief said to Snow, after the Tongan had gone back to his bunk. “I smell something more than shell. Those three men are standing watches over their Kanakas. That man’s no more Swithin Hall than I am.”
Snow whistled from the impact of a new idea.
“I’ve got it!” he cried.
“And I’ll name it,” Grief retorted, “It’s in your mind that the Emily L. was their schooner?”
“Just that. They’re raising and rotting the shell, while she’s gone for more divers, or provisions, or both.”
“And I agree with you.” Grief glanced at the cabin clock and evinced signs of bed-going. “He’s a sailor. The three of them are. But they’re not island men. They’re new in these waters.”
Again Snow whistled.
“And the Emily L. is lost with all hands,” he said. “We know that. They’re marooned here till Swithin Hall comes. Then he’ll catch them with all the shell.”
“Or they’ll take possession of his schooner.”
“Hope they do!” Snow muttered vindictively. “Somebody ought to rob him. Wish I was in their boots. I’d balance off that sixty thousand.”
VII
A week passed, during which time the Uncle Toby was ready for sea, while Grief managed to allay any suspicion of him by the shore crowd.
Even Gorman and Watson accepted him at his self-description. Throughout the week Grief begged and badgered them for the longitude of the island.
“You wouldn’t have me leave here lost,” he finally urged. “I can’t get a line on my chronometer without your longitude.”
Hall laughingly refused.
“You’re too good a navigator, Mr. Anstey, not to fetch New Guinea or some other high land.”
“And you’re too good a navigator, Mr. Hall,” Grief replied, “not to know that I can fetch your island any time by running down its latitude.”
On the last evening, ashore, as usual, to dinner, Grief got his first view of the pearls they had collected. Mrs. Hall, waxing enthusiastic, had asked her husband to bring forth the “pretties,” and had spent half an hour showing them to Grief. His delight in them was genuine, as well as was his surprise that they had made so rich a haul.
“The lagoon is virgin,” Hall explained. “You saw yourself that most of the shell is large and old. But it’s funny that we got most of the valuable pearls in one small patch in the course of a week. It was a little treasure house. Every oyster seemed filled – seed pearls by the quart, of course, but the perfect ones, most of that bunch there, came out of the small patch.”
Grief ran his eye over them and knew their value ranged from one hundred to a thousand dollars each, while the several selected large ones went far beyond.
“Oh, the pretties! the pretties!” Mrs. Hall cried, bending forward suddenly and kissing them.
A few minutes later she arose to say good-night.
“It’s good-bye,” Grief said, as he took her hand. “We sail at daylight.”
“So suddenly!” she cried, while Grief could not help seeing the quick light of satisfaction in her husband’s eyes.
“Yes,” Grief continued. “All the repairs are finished. I can’t get the longitude of your island out of your husband, though I’m still in hopes he’ll relent.”
Hall laughed and shook his head, and, as his wife left the room, proposed a last farewell nightcap. They sat over it, smoking and talking.
“What do you estimate they’re worth?” Grief asked, indicating the spread of pearls on the table. “I mean what the pearl-buyers would give you in open market?”
“Oh, seventy-five or eighty thousand,” Hall said carelessly.
“I’m afraid you’re underestimating. I know pearls a bit. Take that biggest one. It’s perfect. Not a cent less than five thousand dollars. Some multimillionaire will pay double that some day, when the dealers have taken their whack. And never minding the seed pearls, you’ve got quarts of baroques there. And baroques are coming into fashion. They’re picking up and doubling on themselves every year.”
Hall gave the trove of pearls a closer and longer scrutiny, estimating the different parcels and adding the sum aloud.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “They’re worth a hundred thousand right now.”
“And at what do you figure your working expenses?” Grief went on. “Your time, and your two men’s, and the divers’?”
“Five thousand would cover it.”
“Then they stand to net you ninety-five thousand?”
“Something like that. But why so curious?”
“Why, I was just trying – ” Grief paused and drained his glass. “Just trying to reach some sort of an equitable arrangement. Suppose I should give you and your people a passage to Sydney and the five thousand dollars – or, better, seven thousand five hundred. You’ve worked hard.”
Without commotion or muscular movement the other man became alert and tense. His round-faced geniality went out like the flame of a snuffed candle. No laughter clouded the surface of the eyes, and in their depths showed the hard, dangerous soul of the man. He spoke in a low, deliberate voice.
“Now just what in hell do you mean by that?”
Grief casually relighted his cigar.
“I don’t know just how to begin,” he said. “The situation is – er – is embarrassing for you. You see, I’m trying to be fair. As I say, you’ve worked hard. I don’t want to confiscate the pearls. I want to pay you for your time and trouble, and expense.”
Conviction, instantaneous and absolute, froze on the other’s face.
“And I thought you were in Europe,” he muttered. Hope flickered for a moment. “Look here, you’re joking me. How do I know you’re Swithin Hall?”
Grief shrugged his shoulders. “Such a joke would be in poor taste, after your hospitality. And it is equally in poor taste to have two Swithin Halls on the island.”
“Since you’re Swithin Hall, then who the deuce am I? Do you know that, too?”
“No,” Grief answered airily. “But I’d like to know.”
“Well, it’s none of your business.”
“I grant it. Your identity is beside the point. Besides, I know your schooner, and I can find out who you are from that.”
“What’s her name?”
“The Emily L.
“Correct. I’m Captain Raffy, owner and master.”
“The seal-poacher? I’ve heard of you. What under the sun brought you down here on my preserves?”
“Needed the money. The seal herds are about finished.”
“And the out-of-the-way places of the world are better policed, eh?”
“Pretty close to it. And now about this present scrape, Mr. Hall. I can put up a nasty fight. What are you going to do about it?”
“What I said. Even better. What’s the Emily L. worth?”
“She’s seen her day. Not above ten thousand, which would be robbery. Every time she’s in a rough sea I’m afraid she’ll jump her ballast through her planking.”
“She has jumped it, Captain Raffy. I sighted her bottom-up after the blow. Suppose we say she was worth seven thousand five hundred. I’ll pay over to you fifteen thousand and give you a passage. Don’t move your hands from your lap.” Grief stood up, went over to him, and took his revolver. “Just a necessary precaution, Captain. Now you’ll go on board with me. I’ll break the news to Mrs. Raffy afterward, and fetch her out to join you.”
“You’re behaving handsomely, Mr. Hall, I must say,” Captain Raffy volunteered, as the whaleboat came alongside the Uncle Toby. “But watch out for Gorman and Watson. They’re ugly customers. And, by the way, I don’t like to mention it, but you’ve seen my wife. I’ve given her four or five pearls. Watson and Gorman were willing.”
“Say no more, Captain. Say no more. They shall remain hers. Is that you, Mr. Snow? Here’s a friend I want you to take charge of – Captain Raffy. I’m going ashore for his wife.”
VIII
David Grief sat writing at the library table in the bungalow living-room. Outside, the first pale of dawn was showing. He had had a busy night. Mrs. Raffy had taken two hysterical hours to pack her and Captain Raffy’s possessions. Gorman had been caught asleep, but Watson, standing guard over the divers, had shown fight. Matters did not reach the shooting stage, but it was only after it had been demonstrated to him that the game was up that he consented to join his companions on board. For temporary convenience, he and Gorman were shackled in the mate’s room, Mrs. Raffy was confined in Grief’s, and Captain Raffy made fast to the cabin table.
Grief finished the document and read over what he had written:
To Swithin Hall,
for pearls taken from his lagoon (estimated) $100,000
To Herbert Snow, paid in full for salvage from
steamship Cascade in pearls (estimated) $60,000
To Captain Raffy, salary and expenses for
collecting pearls 7,500
To Captain Raffy, reimbursement for
schooner Emily L., lost in hurricane 7,500
To Mrs. Raffy, for good will, five fair
pearls (estimated) 1,100
To passage to Syndey, four persons,
at $120. 480
To white lead for painting Swithin
Hall’s two whaleboats 9
To Swithin Hall, balance in pearls (estimated)
which are to be found in drawer of library table 23,411
$100,000 – $100,000
Grief signed and dated, paused, and added at the bottom:
P. S. – Still owing to Swithin Hall three books, borrowed from library: Hudson’s “Law of Psychic Phenomena,” Zola’s “Paris,” and Mahan’s “Problem of Asia.” These books, or full value, can be collected of said David Griefs Sydney office.
He shut off the electric light, picked up the bundle of books, carefully latched the front door, and went down to the waiting whaleboat.
Chapter Six – A GOBOTO NIGHT
I
At Goboto the traders come off their schooners and the planters drift in from far, wild coasts, and one and all they assume shoes, white duck trousers, and various other appearances of civilization. At Goboto mail is received, bills are paid, and newspapers, rarely more than five weeks old, are accessible; for the little island, belted with its coral reefs, affords safe anchorage, is the steamer port of call, and serves as the distributing point for the whole wide-scattered group.
Life at Goboto is heated, unhealthy, and lurid, and for its size it asserts the distinction of more cases of acute alcoholism than any other spot in the world. Guvutu, over in the Solomons, claims that it drinks between drinks. Goboto does not deny this. It merely states, in passing, that in the Goboton chronology no such interval of time is known. It also points out its import statistics, which show a far larger per capita consumption of spiritous liquors. Guvutu explains this on the basis that Goboto does a larger business and has more visitors. Goboto retorts that its resident population is smaller and that its visitors are thirstier. And the discussion goes on interminably, principally because of the fact that the disputants do not live long enough to settle it.
Goboto is not large. The island is only a quarter of a mile in diameter, and on it are situated an admiralty coal-shed (where a few tons of coal have lain untouched for twenty years), the barracks for a handful of black labourers, a big store and warehouse with sheet-iron roofs, and a bungalow inhabited by the manager and his two clerks. They are the white population. An average of one man out of the three is always to be found down with fever. The job at Goboto is a hard one. It is the policy of the company to treat its patrons well, as invading companies have found out, and it is the task of the manager and clerks to do the treating. Throughout the year traders and recruiters arrive from far, dry cruises, and planters from equally distant and dry shores, bringing with them magnificent thirsts. Goboto is the mecca of sprees, and when they have spread they go back to their schooners and plantations to recuperate.
Some of the less hardy require as much as six months between visits. But for the manager and his assistants there are no such intervals. They are on the spot, and week by week, blown in by monsoon or southeast trade, the schooners come to anchor, cargo’d with copra, ivory nuts, pearl-shell, hawksbill turtle, and thirst.
It is a very hard job at Goboto. That is why the pay is twice that on other stations, and that is why the company selects only courageous and intrepid men for this particular station. They last no more than a year or so, when the wreckage of them is shipped back to Australia, or the remains of them are buried in the sand across on the windward side of the islet. Johnny Bassett, almost the legendary hero of Goboto, broke all records. He was a remittance man with a remarkable constitution, and he lasted seven years. His dying request was duly observed by his clerks, who pickled him in a cask of trade-rum (paid for out of their own salaries) and shipped him back to his people in England. Nevertheless, at Goboto, they tried to be gentlemen. For that matter, though something was wrong with them, they were gentlemen, and had been gentlemen. That was why the great unwritten rule of Goboto was that visitors should put on pants and shoes. Breech-clouts, lava-lavas, and bare legs were not tolerated. When Captain Jensen, the wildest of the Blackbirders though descended from old New York Knickerbocker stock, surged in, clad in loin-cloth, undershirt, two belted revolvers and a sheath-knife, he was stopped at the beach. This was in the days of Johnny Bassett, ever a stickler in matters of etiquette. Captain Jensen stood up in the sternsheets of his whaleboat and denied the existence of pants on his schooner. Also, he affirmed his intention of coming ashore. They of Goboto nursed him back to health from a bullet-hole through his shoulder, and in addition handsomely begged his pardon, for no pants had they found on his schooner. And finally, on the first day he sat up, Johnny Bassett kindly but firmly assisted his guest into a pair of pants of his own. This was the great precedent. In all the succeeding years it had never been violated. White men and pants were undivorce-able. Only niggers ran naked. Pants constituted caste.
II
On this night things were, with one exception, in nowise different from any other night. Seven of them, with glimmering eyes and steady legs, had capped a day of Scotch with swivel-sticked cocktails and sat down to dinner. Jacketed, trousered, and shod, they were: Jerry McMurtrey, the manager; Eddy Little and Jack Andrews, clerks; Captain Stapler, of the recruiting ketch Merry; Darby Shryleton, planter from Tito-Ito; Peter Gee, a half-caste Chinese pearl-buyer who ranged from Ceylon to the Paumotus, and Alfred Deacon, a visitor who had stopped off from the last steamer. At first wine was served by the black servants to those that drank it, though all quickly shifted back to Scotch and soda, pickling their food as they ate it, ere it went into their calcined, pickled stomachs.
Over their coffee, they heard the rumble of an anchor-chain through a hawse-pipe, tokening the arrival of a vessel.
“It’s David Grief,” Peter Gee remarked.
“How do you know?” Deacon demanded truculently, and then went on to deny the half-caste’s knowledge. “You chaps put on a lot of side over a new chum. I’ve done some sailing myself, and this naming a craft when its sail is only a blur, or naming a man by the sound of his anchor – it’s – it’s unadulterated poppycock.”
Peter Gee was engaged in lighting a cigarette, and did not answer.
“Some of the niggers do amazing things that way,” McMurtrey interposed tactfully.
As with the others, this conduct of their visitor jarred on the manager. From the moment of Peter Gee’s arrival that afternoon Deacon had manifested a tendency to pick on him. He had disputed his statements and been generally rude.
“Maybe it’s because Peter’s got Chink blood in him,” had been Andrews’ hypothesis. “Deacon’s Australian, you know, and they’re daffy down there on colour.”
“I fancy that’s it,” McMurtrey had agreed. “But we can’t permit any bullying, especially of a man like Peter Gee, who’s whiter than most white men.”
In this the manager had been in nowise wrong. Peter Gee was that rare creature, a good as well as clever Eurasian. In fact, it was the stolid integrity of the Chinese blood that toned the recklessness and licentiousness of the English blood which had run in his father’s veins. Also, he was better educated than any man there, spoke better English as well as several other tongues, and knew and lived more of their own ideals of gentlemanness than they did themselves. And, finally, he was a gentle soul. Violence he deprecated, though he had killed men in his time. Turbulence he abhorred.
He always avoided it as he would the plague.
Captain Stapler stepped in to help McMurtrey:
“I remember, when I changed schooners and came into Altman, the niggers knew right off the bat it was me. I wasn’t expected, either, much less to be in another craft. They told the trader it was me. He used the glasses, and wouldn’t believe them. But they did know. Told me afterward they could see it sticking out all over the schooner that I was running her.”
Deacon ignored him, and returned to the attack on the pearl-buyer.
“How do you know from the sound of the anchor that it was this whatever-you-called-him man?” he challenged.
“There are so many things that go to make up such a judgment,” Peter Gee answered. “It’s very hard to explain. It would require almost a text book.”
“I thought so,” Deacon sneered. “Explanation that doesn’t explain is easy.”
“Who’s for bridge?” Eddy Little, the second clerk, interrupted, looking up expectantly and starting to shuffle. “You’ll play, won’t you, Peter?”
“If he does, he’s a bluffer,” Deacon cut back. “I’m getting tired of all this poppycock. Mr. Gee, you will favour me and put yourself in a better light if you tell how you know who that man was that just dropped anchor. After that I’ll play you piquet.”
“I’d prefer bridge,” Peter answered. “As for the other thing, it’s something like this: By the sound it was a small craft – no square-rigger. No whistle, no siren, was blown – again a small craft. It anchored close in – still again a small craft, for steamers and big ships must drop hook outside the middle shoal. Now the entrance is tortuous. There is no recruiting nor trading captain in the group who dares to run the passage after dark. Certainly no stranger would. There were two exceptions. The first was Margonville. But he was executed by the High Court at Fiji. Remains the other exception, David Grief. Night or day, in any weather, he runs the passage. This is well known to all. A possible factor, in case Grief were somewhere else, would be some young dare-devil of a skipper. In this connection, in the first place, I don’t know of any, nor does anybody else. In the second place, David Grief is in these waters, cruising on the Gunga, which is shortly scheduled to leave here for Karo-Karo. I spoke to Grief, on the Gunga, in Sandfly Passage, day before yesterday. He was putting a trader ashore on a new station. He said he was going to call in at Babo, and then come on to Goboto. He has had ample time to get here. I have heard an anchor drop. Who else than David Grief can it be? Captain Donovan is skipper of the Gunga, and him I know too well to believe that he’d run in to Goboto after dark unless his owner were in charge. In a few minutes David Grief will enter through that door and say, ‘In Guvutu they merely drink between drinks.’ I’ll wager fifty pounds he’s the man that enters and that his words will be, ‘In Guvutu they merely drink between drinks. ‘” Deacon was for the moment crushed. The sullen blood rose darkly in his face.
“Well, he’s answered you,” McMurtrey laughed genially. “And I’ll back his bet myself for a couple of sovereigns.”
“Bridge! Who’s going to take a hand?” Eddy Little cried impatiently. “Come on, Peter!”
“The rest of you play,” Deacon said. “He and I are going to play piquet.”
“I’d prefer bridge,” Peter Gee said mildly.
“Don’t you play piquet?”
The pearl-buyer nodded.
“Then come on. Maybe I can show I know more about that than I do about anchors.”
“Oh, I say – ” McMurtrey began.
“You can play bridge,” Deacon shut him off. “We prefer piquet.”
Reluctantly, Peter Gee was bullied into a game that he knew would be unhappy.
“Only a rubber,” he said, as he cut for deal.
“For how much?” Deacon asked.
Peter Gee shrugged his shoulders. “As you please.”
“Hundred up – five pounds a game?”
Peter Gee agreed.
“With the lurch double, of course, ten pounds?”
“All right,” said Peter Gee.
At another table four of the others sat in at bridge. Captain Stapler, who was no card-player, looked on and replenished the long glasses of Scotch that stood at each man’s right hand. McMurtrey, with poorly concealed apprehension, followed as well as he could what went on at the piquet table. His fellow Englishmen as well were shocked by the behaviour of the Australian, and all were troubled by fear of some untoward act on his part. That he was working up his animosity against the half-caste, and that the explosion might come any time, was apparent to all.
“I hope Peter loses,” McMurtrey said in an undertone.
“Not if he has any luck,” Andrews answered. “He’s a wizard at piquet. I know by experience.”
That Peter Gee was lucky was patent from the continual badgering of Deacon, who filled his glass frequently. He had lost the first game, and, from his remarks, was losing the second, when the door opened and David Grief entered.
“In Guvutu they merely drink between drinks,” he remarked casually to the assembled company, ere he gripped the manager’s hand. “Hello, Mac! Say, my skipper’s down in the whaleboat. He’s got a silk shirt, a tie, and tennis shoes, all complete, but he wants you to send a pair of pants down. Mine are too small, but yours will fit him. Hello, Eddy! How’s that ngari-ngari? You up, Jock? The miracle has happened. No one down with fever, and no one remarkably drunk.” He sighed, “I suppose the night is young yet. Hello, Peter! Did you catch that big squall an hour after you left us? We had to let go the second anchor.”
While he was being introduced to Deacon, McMurtrey dispatched a house-boy with the pants, and when Captain Donovan came in it was as a white man should – at least in Goboto.
Deacon lost the second game, and an outburst heralded the fact. Peter Gee devoted himself to lighting a cigarette and keeping quiet.
“What? – are you quitting because you’re ahead?” Deacon demanded.
Grief raised his eyebrows questioningly to McMurtrey, who frowned back his own disgust.
“It’s the rubber,” Peter Gee answered.
“It takes three games to make a rubber. It’s my deal. Come on!”
Peter Gee acquiesced, and the third game was on.
“Young whelp – he needs a lacing,” McMurtrey muttered to Grief. “Come on, let us quit, you chaps. I want to keep an eye on him. If he goes too far I’ll throw him out on the beach, company instructions or no.”
“Who is he?” Grief queried.
“A left-over from last steamer. Company’s orders to treat him nice. He’s looking to invest in a plantation. Has a ten-thousand-pound letter of credit with the company. He’s got ‘all-white Australia’ on the brain. Thinks because his skin is white and because his father was once Attorney-General of the Commonwealth that he can be a cur. That’s why he’s picking on Peter, and you know Peter’s the last man in the world to make trouble or incur trouble. Damn the company. I didn’t engage to wet-nurse its infants with bank accounts. Come on, fill your glass, Grief. The man’s a blighter, a blithering blighter.”
“Maybe he’s only young,” Grief suggested.
“He can’t contain his drink – that’s clear.” The manager glared his disgust and wrath. “If he raises a hand to Peter, so help me, I’ll give him a licking myself, the little overgrown cad!”
The pearl-buyer pulled the pegs out of the cribbage board on which he was scoring and sat back. He had won the third game. He glanced across to Eddy Little, saying:
“I’m ready for the bridge, now.”
“I wouldn’t be a quitter,” Deacon snarled.
“Oh, really, I’m tired of the game,” Peter Gee assured him with his habitual quietness.
“Come on and be game,” Deacon bullied. “One more. You can’t take my money that way. I’m out fifteen pounds. Double or quits.”
McMurtrey was about to interpose, but Grief restrained him with his eyes.
“If it positively is the last, all right,” said Peter Gee, gathering up the cards. “It’s my deal, I believe. As I understand it, this final is for fifteen pounds. Either you owe me thirty or we quit even?”
“That’s it, chappie. Either we break even or I pay you thirty.”
“Getting blooded, eh?” Grief remarked, drawing up a chair.
The other men stood or sat around the table, and Deacon played again in bad luck. That he was a good player was clear. The cards were merely running against him. That he could not take his ill luck with equanimity was equally clear. He was guilty of sharp, ugly curses, and he snapped and growled at the imperturbable half-caste. In the end Peter Gee counted out, while Deacon had not even made his fifty points. He glowered speechlessly at his opponent.
“Looks like a lurch,” said Grief.
“Which is double,” said Peter Gee.
“There’s no need your telling me,” Deacon snarled. “I’ve studied arithmetic. I owe you forty-five pounds. There, take it!”
The way in which he flung the nine five-pound notes on the table was an insult in itself. Peter Gee was even quieter, and flew no signals of resentment.
“You’ve got fool’s luck, but you can’t play cards, I can tell you that much,” Deacon went on. “I could teach you cards.”
The half-caste smiled and nodded acquiescence as he folded up the money.
“There’s a little game called casino – I wonder if you ever heard of it? – a child’s game.”
“I’ve seen it played,” the half-caste murmured gently.
“What’s that?” snapped Deacon. “Maybe you think you can play it?”
“Oh, no, not for a moment. I’m afraid I haven’t head enough for it.”
“It’s a bully game, casino,” Grief broke in pleasantly. “I like it very much.”
Deacon ignored him.
“I’ll play you ten quid a game – thirty-one points out,” was the challenge to Peter Gee. “And I’ll show you how little you know about cards. Come on! Where’s a full deck?”
“No, thanks,” the half-caste answered. “They are waiting for me in order to make up a bridge set.”
“Yes, come on,” Eddy Little begged eagerly. “Come on, Peter, let’s get started.”
“Afraid of a little game like casino,” Deacon girded. “Maybe the stakes are too high. I’ll play you for pennies – or farthings, if you say so.”
The man’s conduct was a hurt and an affront to all of them. McMurtrey could stand it no longer.
“Now hold on, Deacon. He says he doesn’t want to play. Let him alone.”
Deacon turned raging upon his host; but before he could blurt out his abuse, Grief had stepped into the breach.
“I’d like to play casino with you,” he said.
“What do you know about it?”
“Not much, but I’m willing to learn.”
“Well, I’m not teaching for pennies to-night.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Grief answered. “I’ll play for almost any sum – within reason, of course.”
Deacon proceeded to dispose of this intruder with one stroke.
“I’ll play you a hundred pounds a game, if that will do you any good.”
Grief beamed his delight. “That will be all right, very right. Let us begin. Do you count sweeps?”
Deacon was taken aback. He had not expected a Goboton trader to be anything but crushed by such a proposition.
“Do you count sweeps?” Grief repeated.
Andrews had brought him a new deck, and he was throwing out the joker.
“Certainly not,” Deacon answered. “That’s a sissy game.”
“I’m glad,” Grief coincided. “I don’t like sissy games either.”
“You don’t, eh? Well, then, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll play for five hundred pounds a game.”
Again Deacon was taken aback.
“I’m agreeable,” Grief said, beginning to shuffle. “Cards and spades go out first, of course, and then big and little casino, and the aces in the bridge order of value. Is that right?”
“You’re a lot of jokers down here,” Deacon laughed, but his laughter was strained. “How do I know you’ve got the money?”
“By the same token I know you’ve got it. Mac, how’s my credit with the company?”
“For all you want,” the manager answered.
“You personally guarantee that?” Deacon demanded.
“I certainly do,” McMurtrey said. “Depend upon it, the company will honour his paper up and past your letter of credit.”
“Low deals,” Grief said, placing the deck before Deacon on the table.
