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.
The latter hesitated in the midst of the cut and looked around with
querulous misgiving at the faces of the others. The clerks and captains
nodded.
“You're all strangers to me,” Deacon complained. “How am I to know?
Money on paper isn't always the real thing.”
Then it was that Peter Gee, drawing a wallet from his pocket and
borrowing a fountain pen from McMurtrey, went into action.
“I haven't gone to buying yet,” the half-caste explained, “so the
account is intact. I'll just indorse it over to you, Grief. It's for
fifteen thousand. There, look at it.”
Deacon intercepted the letter of credit as it was being passed across
the table. He read it slowly, then glanced up at McMurtrey.
“Is that right?”
“Yes. It's just the same as your own, and just as good. The company's
paper is always good.”
Deacon cut the cards, won the deal, and gave them a thorough shuffle.
But his luck was still against him, and he lost the game.
“Another game,” he said. “We didn't say how many, and you can't quit
with me a loser. I want action.”
Grief shuffled and passed the cards for the cut.
“Let's play for a thousand,” Deacon said, when he had lost the second
game. And when the thousand had gone the way of the two five hundred
bets he proposed to play for two thousand.
“That's progression,” McMurtrey warned, and was rewarded by a glare
from Deacon. But the manager was insistent. “You don't have to play
progression, Grief, unless you're foolish.”
“Who's playing this game?” Deacon flamed at his host; and then, to
Grief: “I've lost two thousand to you. Will you play for two thousand?”
Grief nodded, the fourth game began, and Deacon won. The manifest
unfairness of such betting was known to all of them. Though he had lost
three games out of four, Deacon had lost no money. By the child's device
of doubling his wager with each loss, he was bound, with the first game
he won, no matter how long delayed, to be even again.
He now evinced an unspoken desire to stop, but Grief passed the deck to
be cut.
“What?” Deacon cried. “You want more?”
“Haven't got anything yet,” Grief murmured whimsically, as he began the
deal. “For the usual five hundred, I suppose?”
The shame of what he had done must have tingled in Deacon, for he
answered, “No, we'll play for a thousand. And say! Thirty-one points is
too long. Why not twenty-one points out--if it isn't too rapid for you?”
“That will make it a nice, quick, little game,” Grief agreed.
The former method of play was repeated. Deacon lost two games, doubled
the stake, and was again even. But Grief was patient, though the thing
occurred several times in the next hour's play. Then happened what he
was waiting for--a lengthening in the series of losing games for Deacon.
The latter doubled to four thousand and lost, doubled to eight thousand
and lost, and then proposed to double to sixteen thousand.
Grief shook his head. “You can't do that, you know. You're only ten
thousand credit with the company.”
“You mean you won't give me action?” Deacon asked hoarsely. “You mean
that with eight thousand of my money you're going to quit?”
Grief smiled and shook his head.
“It's robbery, plain robbery,” Deacon went on. “You take my money and
won't give me action.”
“No, you're wrong. I'm perfectly willing to give you what action you've
got coming to you. You've got two thousand pounds of action yet.”
“Well, we'll play it,” Deacon took him up. “You cut.”
The game was played in silence, save for irritable remarks and curses
from Deacon. Silently the onlookers filled and sipped their long
Scotch glasses. Grief took no notice of his opponent's outbursts, but
concentrated on the game. He was really playing cards, and there were
fifty-two in the deck to be kept track of, and of which he did keep
track. Two thirds of the way through the last deal he threw down his
hand.
“Cards put me out,” he said. “I have twenty-seven.”
“If you've made a mistake,” Deacon threatened, his face white and drawn.
“Then I shall have lost. Count them.”
Grief passed over his stack of takings, and Deacon, with trembling
fingers, verified the count. He half shoved his chair back from the
table and emptied his glass. He looked about him at unsympathetic faces.
“I fancy I'll be catching the next steamer for Sydney,” he said, and for
the first time his speech was quiet and without bluster.
As Grief told them afterward: “Had he whined or raised a roar I wouldn't
have given him that last chance. As it was, he took his medicine like a
man, and I had to do it.”
Deacon glanced at his watch, simulated a weary yawn, and started to
rise.
“Wait,” Grief said. “Do you want further action?”
The other sank down in his chair, strove to speak, but could not, licked
his dry lips, and nodded his head.
“Captain Donovan here sails at daylight in the _Gunga_ for Karo-Karo,”
Grief began with seeming irrelevance. “Karo-Karo is a ring of sand in
the sea, with a few thousand cocoa-nut trees. Pandanus grows there, but
they can't grow sweet potatoes nor taro. There aremabout eight hundred
natives, a king and two prime ministers, and the last three named are
the only ones who wear any clothes. It's a sort of God-forsaken little
hole, and once a year I send a schooner up from Goboto. The drinking
water is brackish, but old Tom Butler has survived on it for a dozen
years. He's the only white man there, and he has a boat's crew of five
Santa Cruz boys who would run away or kill him if they could. That is
why they were sent there. They can't run away. He is always supplied
with the hard cases from the plantations. There are no missionaries.
Two native Samoan teachers were clubbed to death on the beach when they
landed several years ago.
“Naturally, you are wondering what it is all about. But have patience.
As I have said, Captain Donovan sails on the annual trip to Karo-Karo at
daylight to-morrow. Tom Butler is old, and getting quite helpless. I've
tried to retire him to Australia, but he says he wants to remain and
die on Karo-Karo, and he will in the next year or so. He's a queer old
codger. Now the time is due for me to send some white man up to take the
work off his hands. I wonder how you'd like the job. You'd have to stay
two years.
“Hold on! I've not finished. You've talked frequently of action this
evening. There's no action in betting away what you've never sweated
for. The money you've lost to me was left you by your father or some
other relative who did the sweating. But two years of work as trader on
Karo-Karo would mean something. I'll bet the ten thousand I've won from
you against two years of your time. If you win, the money's yours. If
you lose, you take the job at Karo-Karo and sail at daylight. Now that's
what might be called real action. Will you play?”
Deacon could not speak. His throat lumped and he nodded his head as he
reached for the cards.
“One thing more,” Grief said. “I can do even better. If you lose, two
years of your time are mine--naturally without wages. Nevertheless,
I'll pay you wages. If your work is satisfactory, if you observe all
instructions and rules, I'll pay you five thousand pounds a year for two
years. The money will be deposited with the company, to be paid to you,
with interest, when the time expires. Is that all right?”
“Too much so,” Deacon stammered. “You are unfair to yourself. A trader
only gets ten or fifteen pounds a month.”
“Put it down to action, then,” Grief said, with an air of dismissal.
“And before we begin, I'll jot down several of the rules. These you will
repeat aloud every morning during the two years--if you lose. They
are for the good of your soul. When you have repeated them aloud seven
hundred and thirty Karo-Karo mornings I am confident they will be in
your memory to stay. Lend me your pen, Mac. Now, let's see----”
He wrote steadily and rapidly for some minutes, then proceeded to read
the matter aloud:
“_I must always remember that one man is as good as another, save and
except when he thinks he is better._
“_No matter how drunk I am I must not fail to be a gentleman. A
gentleman is a man who is gentle. Note: It would be better not to get
drunk_.
“_When I play a man's game with men, I must play like a man_.
“_A good curse, rightly used and rarely, is an efficient thing. Too many
curses spoil the cursing. Note: A curse cannot change a card seguence
nor cause the wind to blow._
“_There is no license for a man to be less than a man. Ten thousand
pounds cannot purchase such a license._”
At the beginning of the reading Deacon's face had gone white with anger.
Then had arisen, from neck to forehead, a slow and terrible flush that
deepened to the end of the reading.
“There, that will be all,” Grief said, as he folded the paper and tossed
it to the centre of the table. “Are you still ready to play the game?”
“I deserve it,” Deacon muttered brokenly. “I've been an ass. Mr. Gee,
before I know whether I win or lose, I want to apologize. Maybe it was
the whiskey, I don't know, but I'm an ass, a cad, a bounder--everything
that's rotten.”
He held out his hand, and the half-caste took it beamingly.
“I say, Grief,” he blurted out, “the boy's all right. Call the whole
thing off, and let's forget it in a final nightcap.”
Grief showed signs of debating, but Deacon cried:
“No; I won't permit it. I'm not a quitter. If it's Karo-Karo, it's
Karo-Karo. There's nothing more to it.”
“Right,” said Grief, as he began the shuffle. “If he's the right stuff
to go to Karo-Karo, Karo-Karo won't do him any harm.”
The game was close and hard. Three times they divided the deck between
them and “cards” was not scored. At the beginning of the fifth and
last deal, Deacon needed three points to go out, and Grief needed four.
“Cards” alone would put Deacon out, and he played for “cards”. He no
longer muttered or cursed, and played his best game of the evening.
Incidentally he gathered in the two black aces and the ace of hearts.
“I suppose you can name the four cards I hold,” he challenged, as the
last of the deal was exhausted and he picked up his hand.
Grief nodded.
“Then name them.”
“The knave of spades, the deuce of spades, the tray of hearts, and the
ace of diamonds,” Grief answered.
Those behind Deacon and looking at his hand made no sign. Yet the naming
had been correct.
“I fancy you play casino better than I,” Deacon acknowledged. “I can
name only three of yours, a knave, an ace, and big casino.”
“Wrong. There aren't five aces in the deck. You've taken in three and
you hold the fourth in your hand now.”
“By Jove, you're right,” Deacon admitted. “I did scoop in three. Anyway,
I'll make 'cards' on you. That's all I need.”
“I'll let you save little casino----” Grief paused to calculate. “Yes,
and the ace as well, and still I'll make 'cards' and go out with big
casino. Play.”
“No 'cards' and I win!” Deacon exulted as the last of the hand was
played. “I go out on little casino and the four aces. 'Big casino' and
'spades' only bring you to twenty.”
Grief shook his head. “Some mistake, I'm afraid.”
“No,” Deacon declared positively. “I counted every card I took in.
That's the one thing I was correct on. I've twenty-six, and you've
twenty-six.”
“Count again,” Grief said.
Carefully and slowly, with trembling fingers, Deacon counted the cards
he had taken. There were twenty-five. He reached over to the corner of
the table, took up the rules Grief had written, folded them, and put
them in his pocket. Then he emptied his glass, and stood up. Captain
Donovan looked at his watch, yawned, and also arose.
“Going aboard, Captain?” Deacon asked.
“Yes,” was the answer. “What time shall I send the whaleboat for you?”
“I'll go with you now. We'll pick up my luggage from the _Billy_ as we
go by, I was sailing on her for Babo in the morning.”
Deacon shook hands all around, after receiving a final pledge of good
luck on Karo-Karo.
“Does Tom Butler play cards?” he asked Grief.
“Solitaire,” was the answer.
“Then I'll teach him double solitaire.” Deacon turned toward the door,
where Captain Donovan waited, and added with a sigh, “And I fancy he'll
skin me, too, if he plays like the rest of you island men.”