King and Tsuda stood together under some date palms at the edge of a
field—a mass of vivid green—white blossoms tossing in the tropical
breeze—petals here and there whirling and floating idly. The field was
aswarm with bare-legged Ainu labourers in short, rough tunics. They bent
dully to their task, an expression of unbroken hopelessness on their sad,
hairy faces. “A little experiment in transplanting—h’m?” the Captain
called it. When King passed any of the Ainu they would suspend their
work and clumsily prostrate themselves. All the men had long hair and
prodigious moustaches drooping despondently down amongst the vegetation
with which their hands were busy. There were women of the tribe, too,
with faces for the most part hideously tattooed, and wearing on their
heads bright coloured handkerchiefs of Russian manufacture, which gave
them a picturesque, peasant-like appearance.
Tsuda was saying: “This year much rain—look damn good—like a bumper
crop—yes, _sir_! Up to Bihar and Bengal, maybe—gn—even Afghanistan. I
was all over those places,” he added, in an important, off-hand tone,
“learning the business right on the ground—yes, sir!” His eyes darted
rapidly about, met the new overseer’s gaze, then flitted off.
“What’s the exact acreage?” asked King quietly. Tsuda looked a bit blank.
“Any way of estimating what a normal crop ought to be?” And without
giving the other opportunity to reply, he added, rather crisply: “We’re
going to be a little more scientific, from now on, even if you did have
unusual advantages over in India and thereabouts.”
Tsuda flashed at him a glance, then looked glum. His eyes were restless.
His lips moved, but what he brought out was merely a nonplussed “gn.”
“What was last year’s export?” demanded King.
“About five hundred chest.” For the moment Tsuda’s usual blitheness
appeared damped, and his was the bearing of a man squirming faintly under
an incipient sense of infringement.
King reached idly down and pulled off one of the blossoms with its nearly
ripe capsule, turned it round and round, eyed it curiously, sniffed it.
It had a strange, pungent odour. He crushed it, and his fingers were
stained with a warm pinkish fluid.
Tsuda watched him, his eyes showing a glitter of suppressed excitement.
“Ever try any of it yourself?” he asked, his voice nervous and oddly
shrill.
“No, I never did,” laughed King. “What’s it like, Tsuda?”
“Say,” the other replied, in an offended yet subtly smirking way, “do you
take me—gn—for a fellow with inside information?”
King laughed again, this time rather dryly. “I guess you’ve given it a
trial, at least—just now and then, perhaps?”
Slowly, and at first as though grudgingly, Tsuda smiled. The smile spread
into a very clever, confidential grin. “You needn’t please mention it to
the Captain,” he muttered, “but this is a damn-God-forsaken hole.”
“I understand,” replied King, his tone slightly labelled.
“Sss!” Tsuda acknowledged. And then, after a brief pause which, on his
side, was obviously not a little breathless, he pursued: “Maybe you feel
that way too, later on—later on—gn—and want to give it a try—yes, _sir_!”
King fairly howled with mirth. Tsuda was a trifle transparent, after
all. But tough. Oh, he was a tough old bird! He was anxious to share his
iniquities....
“I have an extra spirit lamp,” Tsuda murmured meekly, in a very small
voice, his eyes humbly on the turf, “and—gn—some pipes I smuggled in,”
he half giggled. “It’s a damn lonely hole here—you shall see. The people
here before were lucky to clear out—yes, _sir_! The coal people and that
albatross-dutchman business—all rot,” he grinned parenthetically.
“I guess you’ve been here long enough to know by this time,” suggested
King.
Tsuda came quite close and muttered, his bony hands restless and his eyes
mere darting slits: “You got to cut loose sometimes—simply have to! And,”
he ended cryptically, “_there’s only one way_!”