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.