But for the fact that there was too muchee pidgin for everyone, as the Chinaman said, or hyu hyu mamook as the Siwashes said, many might have run after Jenny.
"One piecee litty gal velly hansum, belongy Pitt Liber Pete," said Wong, who was the helper at the Chinee Trimmer. He said it with a grin, "Velly nicee klootchman alla samee tenas Yingling gal my know at Canton, Consoo's litty waifo."
She was as pretty as any Consul's little wife, that's a solid mahogany hard wood fact. But with twelve hours work of the sort of work that went on in the Mill who could think of running after the "one litty piecee hansum gal" but the man who didn't work with his hands?
Wong was a philosopher, and, like all real philosophers, not a good patriot—if one excepts Hegel, who was a conservative pig, and a state toady and hateful to democrats. Wong had fine manners and was a gentleman, so much so that the white men really liked him and never wanted to plug him, or jolt him on the jaw or disintegrate him, as they did most of the Chinkies. He returned the compliment, and sometimes quarrelled with his countrymen about the merits of the whites, as one might with Americans and others about the children of the Flowery Kingdom.
"My likee Melican man and Yingling man," said Wong. "Velly good man Melican: my savvy. Some velly bad, maskee oders velly good. If Chinaman makee bobbely and no can do pidgin, Melican man say 'sonny pitch'; maskee my can do, my savvy stick-mula mamook, so Melican man and Yingling man say, 'Good Wong, no sonny pitch, velly good.' Melican gentleman velly good all plopa. What ting you tinkee?"
Wong was an enigmatic mask of a man, wrinkled wondrously and looking sixty, though nothing near it, as hard as solid truth, fond of singing to a mandolin, great at Fan tan, but peaceable as a tame duck.
He had a kind heart, "all plopa that one piecee man" from Canton, and one day (not yet) he has his place here, all out of kindness to the "litty hansum gal belongy Pitt Liber Pete." May his ashes go back to China in a nice neat "litty piecee box" and be buried among his ancestors who ought to be proud of him. Blessed be his name, and may he rank with Konfutse! I preferred him to Hegel. And if any of you want to know why I refer to him, you must draw conclusions.
But, as we were saying, who could have full time to run after the "litty gal" but Quin?
To make another excursion, and explain, it may be as well to let Pappenhausen talk. There were two Germans in the Mill, and both worked in the Planing Shed. One was a man of no account, a shuffling, weak-kneed, weak-eyed, lager-beer Hans, with as much brains as would have qualified him to be Heir Apparent to some third-rate Teutonic Opera-House Kingdom. But Pappenhausen was a Man, that is to say, he didn't compromise on Lager or weep because he drank too much. And he could work like three, and he wasn't the German kind as regards courage. German courage is very fine and fierce when the Teutons are in a majority, but when they aren't their courage ranks as the finest discretion, that is, as cowardice nine times out of ten. Pappenhausen would fight anyone or any two any time and any where. He could fight with fists or a spanner, or a pickareen or a club, and he took some satisfying. He was an amazing man, had been in America thirty years. He said he was a "Galifornian" and fought you if you didn't believe it. Once he stood up to Quin and was knocked galley-west, for besides Long Mac there wasn't a man in Saw-Mill Town that could tackle the Boss. Quin got a black eye, but Papp had two and lay insensible for an hour. Quin was so pleased with that, that he put him to work again and stood him drinks. He actually did. After that Papp, as he was called, stood up for, and not to, George Quin, and said he was a man, and he asked what it mattered if he did run after the klootchmen?
"Dat's der Teufel," grunted the native "Galifornian," "dat's der Teufel, we all run avder der klootchmen, if we don'd avder trink. I'm a philozopher, I, and I notizzes dat if it arn'd one ding it's anoder. And no one gan help it, boys. One man he run avder dollars, screamin' oud for dollars, and if you zay a dollar ain'd wort' von 'ondred cents of drubble he tink you grazy. I zay one dollar's wort' of rest wort' a dollar and a half any day. On'y I cain'd help workin'. If I don'd I feel I braig somedings mit mein hands. Oders run avder klootchmen; if dey don'd dey feels as if dey would also braig somedings. I tinks the welt a foolish blace, but in Shermany (where my vater game from) I dinks it most foolish. And Misder Guin he run avder Pete's klootchman and bymby Pete gill her as like as nod and then Mr. Guin very sorry he spoke. I dell you I knows. Life is a damn silly choke, boys."
But it was (and is) only a joke to a Democritus of Papp's type. Even Papp said:—
"Bymby I ged a new sood of glose and fifdy dollars and I go back home to California."
He said it and had said it.
"Bymby——"
Poor Papp!
It was no joke to Jenny presently that "Misder Guin" ran after her. But then it is no joke at any time to be the acknowledged belle of any place, even if it is a Saw-Mill Sawdust Town, and the truth is that Jenny shone even among the white women, gorgeous in their pride and occasional new frocks from San Francisco, the Paris of the Coast. There wasn't a white "litty gal" in the City who was a patch on her: she was the "slickest piece of caliker" within long miles. Folks who were critical and travelled, said that there was her equal over at Victoria, but that was far off, and much water lay between. From the mighty white-peaked summit of the Rockies, and the wonders of the Selkirks, down through the Landing and Kamloops and Yale at the end of the Cañon away to Westminster, she was the prettiest.
Think of it and consider that she lived in a two-roomed shack with a decent-looking wedger-off who was a Sitcum Siwash! She got compliments on the street as she went up and down town.
"Great Scott, she's a daisy!"
"By the Great Horn Spoon, and also by the Tail of the Sacred Bull, she knocks spots off of the hull crowd."
Such things said openly have their effect. But the tulips on the dressing-gown did even more, and the high-heeled shoes. She hankered after things in the streets to which the dressing-gown was but a faded flower. Quin spoke to her once as she glared into a window.
"You like that, Jenny?"
"Oh, my," said little greedy Jenny.
Quin didn't care a hang if he spoke to the little klootchman in public. He wasn't in society, for even in the River City there was Society. They drew the line at squaw-men who went to dance-houses and so on. But for that, the Manager and Owner of a Mill (or half one or even a quarter) could have had entrance to the loftiest gaieties and the dullest on earth. He didn't "give a damn," not a "continental," for the "hull boiling," said Quin. Jenny was his mark, you can take your oath.
She was worth it in looks only, that's the best and worst of it.
"Oh, my," said Jenny.
"I'll give it you: it's my potlatsh," said the Manager, who cared little for dollars when the girls came in.
It was a "potlatsh," a gift indeed! To get Jenny, Quin would have done "a big brave's potlatsh" and given away all he owned, horses, mill, house, and all. That's a fact, and it must be remembered as Papp said, that "dey also veels as if dey would braig somedings!"
She got the gorgeous silk of tartan stripes that flared in the window like a light lightening the darkness, for Quin went in and bought what is known as a dress length and sent it down to her by his Chinese "boy." When he met Pete in the road at noon that day he stopped him.
"Oh, Pete——"
"Sir," said Pete respectfully, for the Tyee was so big and strong besides being a Tyee, which always counts.
"I have given your wife some stuff to make a dress. She was very good to my brother and to Mary," said Quin. "She's a very good little girl."
He nodded and walked on. He wished Pete would get killed on the top of a log, but his face was inscrutable and calm as that of any full-blooded Siwash. Pete was as innocent and as unsuspicious as any child. If he feared anyone it was Spanish Joe, with his guitar and his songs. He went home as pleased as Punch by the condescension of the Boss, and found Jenny laying out dinner.
The trouble came as quick as it could come. It came right there and then, when both were as happy as they could be. Jenny fairly shivered with pleasure to think of the silk she had hidden inside the inner room. Real silk it was and new, not a cast-off rag from Mrs. Alexander, of the Kamloops Hotel. The tulips of the dressing-gown faded clean out of sight: they died down in their monstrous array. She saw the Dress, saw it made up, saw the world admire it: heard the other klootchmen clicking envious admiration. But how was she to account for it to Pete? She had been kissed by Quin, and she knew he liked her, wanted her. The big man flattered her senses, he was a white man, rich and strong. She wouldn't have almost sworn on the Bible that she wouldn't lass him, now that this silk filled earth and heaven for her gaudy little mind. She would have to think how to tell Pete.
So in came Pete in excitement.
"Show me what Mr. Quin give you," he demanded. And her unlucky lie was ready. It fell from her lips before she had a moment to think.
"He give me nothing; why you say that?"
Pete's jaw fell and his eyes shut to a thin line.
"You damned liar, kliminiwhit," he said. "I know."
"It's not true, you dam' liar you'self," said Jenny. "What for you tink the Tyee give me tings? You tink me a cultus klootchman like Indian Annie?"
On his oath he would have sworn one happy moment before that he had never thought so. Now he thought too much.
"You show it me or I kill you," said Pete. "I know Mr. Quin he give you some stuff to make a dless."
In his rage his words grew more Indian, and his taught English failed, his r's became l's. So did hers.
"Damn lie, I have no dless," screamed Jenny. "You no give me no'ting, you make kokshut my dlessing-gown. I dless like one cultus klootchman, in lags."
He ran at her and she fled round the table. The newspaper and the dinner went on the floor, and she screamed. Then she slipped on the steak, and went down. As chance had it the table came over on top of her and she held it tight, so that he could not get at her to hurt her much. But he kicked her legs hard and then went into the inner room.
"No, Pete, no," she screamed. She knew that he must find the dress, the precious silk, and she forgot all else in her great desire that it should not be harmed. "I tell you the trut', Pete."
She crawled from under the table: her hair was down to her waist, her wretched every-day gown torn from her back: her bosom showed.
"Oh, Pete, oh, Pete!"
Her lips hung piteous for the lovely thing that Pete had found and now held up in horrid triumph. The roll unrolled: he had the crumpled end in his hand. It was a flag of blazing silk, a tartan to appeal to any savage. Now it cried for help.
"You damn klootchman, you," said Pete. "What for Quin he give you this?"
He kicked the roll with his foot. The stuff unrolled more and Jenny cried aloud as though it was her papoose that her savage man ill-used.
"I don' know why he give it me," she squealed.
"Him velly kin' man always. Oh, don' tear it, Pete, oh, oh!"
With his hands he ripped the silk in fragments.
"You damn bad woman, mesahchie klootchman," he roared. "You no take such a ting from Mr. Quin! You look at him lika you look at Spanish Joe the other day: I see you."
"You no see me do anyting wrong," Jenny cried, weeping bitterly. "I don' lika Spanish Joe. 'Tis a lie, Pete. And I no can help if Mr. Quin give me tings. I a very good woman, on the Bible I swear it. I quite virtuous; Mr. Quin he no touch me, I swear it. Don' tear it no more. Pete, oh, don'!"
He set his foot on the silk and ripped full twenty yards into fragments. The room was full of shining stuff, of red and yellow and green: the floor was gorgeous with colour, and as he exhausted his rage upon what he had found and was quite pitiless, her little flower of love for him seemed to die in her outraged heart, which loved beautiful things so much. Now she had nothing left, her visions passed from her. She sat down on the floor and howled aloud, keening over the death of the beautiful dress. She was no longer full of pride, and conscious of her beauty: she was no more than a poor dirty ill-used, heart-broken little klootchman, no more thought of than dirty old Annie and Annawillee, who mourned so sadly the other happy night.
"Aya, yaya, hyaalleha," she cried aloud. "Hyas klahowyam nika, very miser'ble, aya!"
And Pete ran out of the shack leaving her moaning.
"That make her know what, eh?" said Pete. He worked furiously at the Mill, without any food, and was very unhappy, of course, though he knew he had done quite right in tearing the silk to pieces, and in knocking thunder out of his klootchman. He didn't believe she had been "real wicked," but when it came to taking presents from Mr. Quin, and lying about them, it was time to look out.
"I teach her," said Pete; "give her what for, eh?"
But he wasn't mad with Quin. It was quite natural for Quin to want Jenny. Pete knew all the men did. She was so pretty. Even the Chinamen knew it and said so. Pete was proud of that. "Velly hansum litty klootchman," said Wong. Why should a man be angry because another man wants his "litty gal?" No need to "makee bobbely 'bout that" surely. But the litty girl had to be taught, Nawitka!
"I give her the stick by-by," said Pete, and he used the wedges and the maul as if he were giving poor wretched Jenny the stick then. He worked that day though he hadn't an ounce of muckamuck inside him. Ginger White said he was as quick as the devil: worth ten of that swine Simmons. White's nose was gradually resuming its natural shape, but when he thought of Simmons his hand went up to it.
Oho, but they all worked, worked like the Bull-Wheel, like Gwya-Gwya and "him debble-debble," said Wong.
"No Joss in British Columbia," said Wong; "spose wantee catchee Joss catchee Debble-Debble. Bymby Blitish Columbia-side an' Californee-side him allo blong China, then Joss he come, galaw!"
The "debble-debble"' was in Pete's heart for hours, but there's nothing like work to get him out, and by four o'clock he was getting sorry he had kicked Jenny and torn up the "dless." The little klootchman had been good, he was sure, and she cooked for him nicely and didn't get drunk often. If she did get too much, it was his own fault, he knew that.
"I tell her I'm sorry," he said.
Aya, yaya, what a cruel world it is, Pitt River Pete!
The little klootchman was "dying" now and telling the old hag Indian Annie all about it. And it's only four o'clock and the Mill runs till six.
Poor Jenny, with bare shoulders and bare bosom, howled upon the gorgeous floor of silken rags for a long hour after Pete ran out in a rage.
"Aya, yaya, nika toketie dless kokshut, no good. Pete him wicket man, aya!"
Oh, think of it! That beautiful green and yellow and red silk so fine and thick and soft and shining t That "dless" which it contained as a possibility, that her natural woman's eye put on her pretty self! Aya, Yaya! Even a dear white woman would be very cross indeed if her man came in and said, "You damn person, you have a roll of silk given you by Smith or Brown or Jones," and then tore it up. Aya, Yaya! How sad for poor Jenny, only nineteen, and so sweet to look at and with a love of colour. Aya, as I speak I feel "hyu keely." I could mourn with Jenny and say I'd get her another roll of silk, for a kiss, perhaps, for the devil's in such a pretty dear. Tut, tut, it's a sad world and a wicked, and the pretty ones are the devil, aya, yaya!
It was quiet enough in Shack-Town in the afternoon and a continual aya, yaya-ing soon attracted the attention of Indian Annie when she came from begging up-town past Pete's shack.
"Aha, oho," said the bundle of wicked rags, once a beautiful klootchman and a white sea-captain's darling, and yet another's and another's, ay de mi, as Chihuahua said when he was sad, and others still in a devil of a long diminuendo and degringolade and a sad, sad fall, just as if she had been an improper white. "Oho, why Jenny cly, kahta she cly?"
In she went, for she knew Pete was wedging-off, and in the inner room she found a pretty one half naked on the silken rag carpet.
"Oh, my toketie Jenny, kahta cly? Oh, Lejaub, the pretty stuff all tole up, yaya? Who done it, Jenny, real kloshe silk all assame white klootchman have in chu'ch? Who give him, aya?"
She was down on her knees gathering up the silk in whole armfuls.
"Dis Pete? Eh, Pete, pelton Pete, fool Pete, eh?"
Jenny sobbed out it was Pete who had torn it all up, and Annie nodded cunningly as she stuffed a good bundle of it into her rags.
"Aha, pelton Pete mamook si'k kokshut, but klaksta potlatsh mika, nika toketie, who give him you, my pretty?"
"Mr. Quin give him, and my bad man he say I mesahchie, no good, a cultus klootchman alla same you!" howled Jenny open-mouthed.
Annie showed her yellow fangs in a savage grin.
"Cultus, alla same nika? Oho, pelton Pete, fool Pete!"
"And he say," roared Jenny like any baby, "that I no good, not virtuous, and he beat me, and taka silk and tearum lika so! And I think I make a dless so pretty and now the pretty dless is all lags, all lags!"
She roared again and shook with sobs, and Annie got her by the shoulder.
"Pete is Lejaub, the devil of a bad man, my pretty. I get you ten new dlesses for that. I hear Pete no go to mamook but go up town and dlink whisky at Spanish Joe's white woman's. By-by he come back and beat you, Jenny."
Jenny clutched her.
"Oh, he kick me bad, see, nanitch!"
She showed her pretty knee with a black bruise on it.
"That nothin', tenas toketie, by-by Pete come back pahtlum and knock hell out of you, Jenny," said Annie. Then she bent and whispered in Jenny's ear.
"Oh, no, no," said Jenny. She clutched at Annie's skirt as the old wretch got upon her feet. But Annie turned on her and twitched her rags away.
"You pelton, too? Much better be live and with rich good man than dead with Pete and Pete with a lope on him neck. I go tell Mr. Quin, him very good man, kloshe man."
But Jenny implored her not to go to him. And as she sobbed that she was afraid of Quin the old hag gathered up more and more of the silk until she had nearly all that poor Jenny wasn't sitting on.
"You stay. I go see, go think what I do for you. I no go to Mr. Quin, I promise, tenas toketie."
And she got away and went straight to the office in which Quin was to be found, and asked to see him.
"Quit, you old devil," said the young clerk, "pull your freight out of this. No klootchmen wanted here."
She had her ugly old face inside the door and the boy threw the core of an apple at her.
"I want see Mr. Quin," she cried, as she dodged the missile.
"I want see him. You no kumtuks. Mr. Quin see me, I tell you he want see me. Ya, pelton!"
The boy knew very little Chinook and missed half the beauty of what she went on to say to him. But she told him much about his parents and a great deal about his sisters that would have been disagreeable even if translated with discretion. By the time she came to a climax, her voice rose to a shriek that might have been audible in the Mill itself, and Quin came out in a rage.
"Get to thunder out of this, you old fool," said Quin, "or I'll have you kicked off the place!"
She looked at him steadily and held up a long fragment of the silk before him.
"Mika kumtuks okook, you know him?" she asked with a hideous leer.
And Quin came off the step and went up to her.
"Where you get it, Annie?"
"You know," said Annie. "Tenas toketie have him, you give him, ah. But who tear him, makum kokshut?"
"Pete?" asked Quin with the devil of a face on him. But Annie walked a little away and beckoned him to follow. She got him round the corner and he went with her like a child. He thought he understood. Annie put out her claw and took his coat.
"I give you klootchman often, now you give me tukamonuk dolla, one hundred dolla, and I give you pretty Jenny."
Quin blew out his breath and bent down to her.
"You old devil," he said with a wavering grin.
"Me Lejaub? Halo, no, I give you pretty young squaw, that not like Lejaub. You give me one hundred dolla, see."
Quin sighed and opened his mouth.
"I give it. How you do it, Annie?"
"Now she hate Pete, him pelton," said the witch; "he beat her, kick her knee, kick her back, kick her belly too, and tear up si'k in tenas bits, Mr. Quin. She cly like any papoose, she scleam and make gleat latlah. He tear up si'k and tear her dless, now she half-naked on the floo'. That bad, and she pretty and say Mr. Quin give me dless, kloshe Mr. Quin. She love you, she tikegh mika, cly kahkwa the si'k yours. You come: she go with you. I make so no one know tings, if you take her yo' house."
His house was on the hill above them. There he lived with not a soul but his Chinese boy.
"How you make no one know?" he asked.
"Kloshe, I do it," said Annie. "I say to Pete she say to me she lun away, and not come back, eh?"
But as Quin explained to her, the first person Pete would think of would be the man who had given her the dress.
"Oh, ya, I know," said Annie. "Kloshe; I very clever klootchman, I know evelything. She lun away with Shipman Jack this very day and came tell me so I tell Pete. How that do, Mr. Quin? You tink, eh?"
But Quin was doubtful. Annie urged her scheme on him and still drew him further down the road.
"Pete him once jealous, hab sick tumtum about Jenny with Shipman Jack, because Jack pinch her behind and she cly out and Pete hear it. That the other night. I know, I know evelything. I tell him mo'. I say she often meet Jack befo'. Now you have fire Jack, and he goes away this day and he now go inTeaserpiah-ship to Victolia, I see him. Ah, velly good, she go with him. I say klahowya to them. I get Annawillee for a dolla say she say klahowya to them. And alla time Jenny in yo' house. I bling her this night. You see, all light. You give me one dolla now?"
"You'll get drunk, you old harridan," said Quin, who was all of a shake, "and if you do you'll mamook pelton of me and no get the hundred dolla. No, I give you all to-night."
And knowing that it was true that she might get drunk if she had that dollar she went away without it, back to Jenny.
It was true enough that Jack Mottram, "Shipman" or sailorman, had been fired that day a little before noon. To be "fired" is to get the Grand Bounce, and to get that is to get what everyone understands when the sack is spoken of. Another way of saying it is to mention that "he got his time," or perhaps his Walking Ticket. So now it is understood. Before getting all these qualifications as a free unemployed seaman he had got drunk early in the morning. This is nearly always a fatal error and brings trouble anywhere. In a Stick-Moola running at full time it is liable to bring death. For death stands handy with his scythe, or perhaps his pickareen, uplifted in a Mill. Indeed, Jack the Shipman very nearly sent back to Bouddha, or maybe to Posa, one poor native of the Flowery Kingdom by landing him one on the "ear-hole." Poor Fan Tang (or something like it) up-ended and disappeared down a chute, and was so sadly disgruntled that he limped to the office and denounced Jack to Quin in a fine flow of Pidgin English and mixed Chinook.
"Muchee bad bad man belong Tlimmer pukpuk my! My fallee down chute allo same lumber. My muchee solly, you look see bluise!"
He exposed his awful injuries to Quin's view. He had parted with many patches of cuticle in his tumble down the chute.
"Dat shipman bad man, muchee dlunk," said Fan Tang spitefully, and when Quin went over to the Mill he found that Jack was indeed "muchee dlunk," and full of insolence and whisky.
"All ri', Mr. Quin, I quit. I'm full up of this work. You give me my money and I'm off to sea. What the 'ell I ever came ashore for, I dunno! What ho!"
Tom Willett, a young Englishman, went from the Chinee Trimmer to the Big Trimmer, and Wong the philosopher took the Chinee Trimmer.
"Out of this," said Quin, "or I'll smash your jaw."
That was to Jack, who wasn't so drunk as to take up the challenge. He went to the office quite meekly after all. He was almost as meek as one "Dutchman" among ten English.
"Righto, I'm off to Victoria this very day," said Jack. He drew fifteen dollars and three bits, rolled up his dunnage, and went to the wharf where theTeasersteamboat, or "piah-ship," was lying. He bade farewell to Sawmill Town with much contempt. But Indian Annie saw him go. He goes out of this history on his way to Hong Kong with lumber. He got well man-handled by an American mate and lost much insolence before he sighted Mount Stenhouse.
Annie went back to Jenny, now moaning sadly with a dirty face, striped with tear-channels, and told the poor pretty dear a dreadful tale. Pete was up-town, having got drink in spite of his being a Siwash, and was ready to kill, said Annie.
"Aya, I'm very much flightened," said poor Jenny. "What shall I do, Annie?"
The procuress stole a little more silk and dragged at Jenny's arm.
"You klatawa, go away, chahco with me. I hide you, toketie. Pete wicked, bad man, and get hang if he see you. Come hyak, hyak!"
She got her into her own den, and hid her in the inner room. Then she hobbled off to Annawillee, while Jenny sobbed herself to sleep on the dirty bed. Annie and Annawillee were old friends, for Annie liked her. When Chihuahua beat Annawillee too much she took refuge at Annie's till her man calmed down. For love of Annie and a dollar Annawillee would do anything.
"I say I see Jenny klatawa in piah-ship with Jack the shipman. Nawitka, I say it, and you give me dolla?"
"Ha, one dolla, and one dlink, Annawillee," said Annie, grinning. "Pete he much solly, and get pahtlum to-night, for I take Jenny away to Mista Quin. By-by I ask mo' dolla. Nanitsh?"
Oh, but indeed Annawillee was no fool and saw quick enough. To get money for helping Quin to Jenny and to get more for not telling was a fine business! "What you tink, eh?"
At five o'clock, Jenny dressed in a horrid yellow dress belonging notoriously to Annawillee, and with her head bound up as if she were indeed Annawillee after Chihuahua had booted thunder out of her in a jamboree, crawled with Annie up the hill, and sat behind a big stump close to Quin's house, which stood alone. Poor Jenny was scared to death by now, for Annie said terrible things of a drunken Pete, who was supposed to be sharpening a knife for a pretty throat.
"You very good klootchman to Pete," said Annie, "and he bad, oh, bad to you, tenas toketie. Mista Quin him good man, rich and very skookum. Pete kwass, afraid of Mista Quin. You alla same white klootchman, good dlesses, very pretty. You no forget poor Annie: you give her dless and dolla when you alla same white woman in chu'ch, in legleese."
Jenny wept bitterly. She still thought she loved Pete, and she was conscious that she was no beauty in her dirt and the dreadful yellow rags of Annawillee.
"I wicked klootchman," said Jenny, "no mo' virtuous, I have shem see Bible. And I not toketie now, very dirty. How I look now, Annie?"
"You always toketie, tenas," said the old witch truly enough. "I do up yo' hair, tenas. By-by you mamook wash yo' face, and be very pretty. Mista Quin mamook wash every day, him gleat man, skookum man, very lich, very lich, plenty dolla. Him love you mo' than one hundred dolla."
She did up Jenny's mass of tumbled black hair, and wiped her face with a rag. She wetted it in her mouth.
"Now you clean," said Annie. "What time Mista Quin come to him house?"
She peered from behind her stump, and presently saw Quin come up the hill. As he passed her she called to him in a low voice.
"Yahkwa, here, Mista Quin."
And Quin came across the brush to them. Jenny buried her face in her hands and her shoulders troubled.
"I bling her," said Annie. "She much aflaid, hyu kwass, of Pete. He say he makee her mimaloose, kill her dead, she muchee aflaid, and she tikegh you, love you always."
Jenny shook and trembled like a beaten dog.
"She now very dirty and bad dless, but you mamook wash, and she hyu toketie. No klootchman here like Jenny. Now, tenas, you klatawa in house quick."
She dragged the trembling child to her feet, and then held out her hand to Quin.
"You give me the dolla?"
And Quin gave her the money in notes. She knew well enough what each one was worth.
"Now I tell Pete she klatawa with shipman Jack to Victoly, ha!"
She scrambled down the hill and Quin took Jenny by the arm.
"Come, tenas," he said in a shaking voice.
But it was a kind voice after all, and Jenny burst into a torrent of sobs and clung to him.
"I have much shem," she said, "I have much shame."
Even Quin had some too, poor devil.
They went into the house.
By the time that the evening sun, slanting westwards to the Pacific, which roared on wild beaches sixteen miles away, shone into the western end of the Mill, Pete had worked the anger out of his heart as healthy children of the earth must do. The song of the Mill was no longer angry or menacing: it became a harmony and was even sweet. Work went beautifully: the logs were sweet-cutting spruce for the most part, or splendid pine, or odorous red cedar, and one precious log of white cedar. The saws ran easy and their filed teeth were sharp: the Hoes said "We can do, we can do," and the Pony Saw piped cleanly and clear, while the Trimmers, though they cut across the grain, cut most swiftly, and said, "Gee whiz, gee whiz." Young Willett was pleased to get the Big Trimmer and Wong most proud to run the Chinee one, which by its name certainly belonged of old to some Chinaman, perhaps now in the country of Green Tea and Bamboos, and forgetful of his ancient toil in alien lands. The engines, too, ran well and the sawdust carriers did not break down, and no belt parted, and nobody but Ginger White said much that was uncivil, and if he went no further than that no one minded him any more than they minded the weather or the wind.
So as things went sweetly, Pete's heart grew sweet and he was sorry he had kicked at Jenny's legs as she lay under the table, and sorry he had torn up the pretty silk. After all it was natural enough that Quin should give her something, and it was natural he wanted her. But of course he couldn't get her, for she was virtuous and had a Bible, and knew religion, and believed that Lejaub, or the diable, would take anyone who was not virtuous. Both the Catholic and the English priests said that, so it must be true. And, if she had denied having the dress, he owned that he had often frightened her and it was natural for her to say she hadn't got it, poor toketie Jenny. He nobly determined to forgive her and say no more about it.
And then the exultant whistle declared with a hoot that the work was over for the day, and the engines stopped and the saws whirred and whined and drawled and yawned and stood still while the workers clattered out, laughing and quite happy.
Oh, but it's good to be strong and well and to have work, but to have none and thereby to get to cease to love it is very bad, oh, very bad indeed. Let the wise know this, as the unwise and ignorant who labour know it in their hearts and in their hands.
"Oho," said Pete as he strode across the yard, "oho!"
He was nobly determined to forgive. He would go in to Jenny and say, "Look here, Jenny, I forgive you because you tell that lie, that kliminwhit. I forgive you, but you be good, kloshe, tell your man no more kliminwhit."
He came to his silent shack and didn't notice that no smoke, no cooking smoke, came from its low chimney. He marched in bent on forgiveness, and found the front room empty.
"She still cly about that silk," said Pete uneasily. He hesitated a moment before he opened the inner door and called to her.
"Jenny, Jenny."
Silence answers you, Pete, silence and two empty rooms with a table upset, and some few rags of dirtied silk still left by the predaceous fingers or claws of the vulturine Annie.
"She velly closs, go out with some other klootchman," said Pete. "Damn, I beat her again."
It was very hard indeed that he, the Man, should come in ready for forgiveness and good advice with regard to future lies, and should find no one meekly ready to accept pardon and to promise rigid truth in future: it was very hard indeed, and Pete's brows contracted and his heart was outraged.
"Now I not forgive," said Pete. "She not here, no muckamuck ready and I so olo, so hungry."
He saw the steak that poor Jenny had cooked for his dinner. It lay upon the floor, as she had lain on it. It was trodden and filthy and Pete kicked it spitefully. He saw an old rag of a dress that was Jenny's. It was the one she had discarded for Annawillee's horrid yellow rag of quarantine, which said, "I'm Annawillee, be wise and don't come near me." She had changed at Annie's, but Annie brought it back and put it in sight. For she was a spiteful devil.
"What for?" said Pete. A dull fear entered his heart which did not dispossess his anger. "What for: kahta she leave dless?"
It was a "dless" indeed. But she did not need it then. There were certain beautiful garments at Quin's house, and there would be more.
"I'll kick her when I find her," said Pete. He ran out and went straight to the next shack, to Indian Annie's den.
He found her and Annawillee, and both were drunk, but not yet too drunk for speech, or for the discretion of the arranged lie.
"You see Jenny?" he demanded.
Annie lifted her claws to heaven and moaned.
"I so sorry, Pete, Jenny bad klootchman!"
"What you mean, you old devil?" roared Pete, in horrid fear.
"I tell you delate, I tell you, Pete. She klatawa with—with——"
His jaw dropped.
"She go with Shipman Jack to Victoly in piah-ship," said Annie, hiccupping. "I see her, Annawillee see her."
"I see, nika nanitsh Jenny klatawa with Jack," puked Annawillee. "She klatawa in piah-ship, she go Victoly."
She was hugging a bottle to her pendant breasts as she told her lie. But she believed it by now, and kept on repeating "to Victoly, an' to California in piah-ship with Shipman Jack, inati chuck; acloss water."
"Oh, God," said Pete. He was a dirty white colour. His lips hung down.
"She tikegh Jack velly much," said Annie, "love him very much, and cly and say him good man, not beat her and tear her dless. She much aflaid of you, Pete. She cly and go away."
"She cly and go away," chimed in Annawillee, weeping tears of awful alcohol. She was so sorry for everyone, and for herself and Jenny and Pete and all the world. "I cly, I cly!"
She sobbed and drank, and still Pete stood there, very sick at heart.
"My pretty tenas klootchman," he murmured, "oh, hell, what I do?"
"You hab dlink," said Annie, holding him up the bottle. He took it, put it to his mouth, and drank half a pint of fiery stuff that nearly skinned his throat. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and turned away back to his empty shack.
"I will kill Jack," he said, "I, I, kill Jack!"
He saw the world in a haze: the Mill danced darkly before his eyes, dark against a golden sunset, his brain reeled, and when he came to his own door he fell inside and lay insensible.
"Pete dlink too much, he gleedy beast," said Annie. But Annawillee nursed her empty bottle to her bosom and said foolishly—
"I see—nika nanitsh Jenny klatawa, oh, hyu keely Annawillee."
And the night presently came down, and as the shacks lighted up it was told among all the Siwashes and the Chinkies and the White Men of ten Nations that Jenny, pretty Jenny, tenas toketie Jenny, had "scooted" with Shipman Jack across the water to Victoria, to California, to China, oh, to hell-an'-gone somewhere!
"To Hell and Gone out of this," they said. And Spanish Joe sang to the guitar a bitter little song about someone's señora who fled across the sea, and Chihuahua grinned at Jack's luck (Annawillee did not tell him the truth), and the Whites, Long Mac, and Shorty Gibbs and Tenas Billy and even young Tom Willett, who knew nothing about klootchmen, though some had their eye on him hopefully, said there was no knowing what any woman would do. They understood that men would do what they had a mind to.
"Anyhow," said Shorty, "she was a dern sight too pretty for a golderned Siwash like Pete. Someone wuz sure to kapswalla her sooner or later. If I wuz given to klootchmen, which I ain't, thank the Lord, I'd ha' put in for her myself."
But to think of such a coyoté as Jack Mottram picking up the Pearl of the River!
"It would sicken a hog," said Shorty Gibbs.
Quin might be a Squaw-Man (as indeed he was in his irregular way) but he lived in comfort, and Sam, his "boy," aged twenty-five, was a wonder, worth more dollars by far than the days of the longest months and all he could steal as well. Sam was good-looking and as clean as a fresh-run quinnat, and he had the most heavenly and ingratiating smile, and the neatest ways, and a heaven-sent gift of cooking. He was pleasant to the world and to himself, and he sang little Chinese songs as he worked and made Quin's house as clean as heaven after rain. He didn't "hit the pipe," which Wong did, of course, and he only smoked cigars. They were Quin's and good ones. Not that opium is so bad as liquor, by the way, though the missionaries say it is. It is better to "hit the pipe" than to "dlinkee for dlunk," and that's an all-solid fact.
Sam was discreet, and he let no one rob Quin but himself. Indeed, he almost loved Quin, for Quin had good qualities. For example, he rarely swore in his own house, and he had a way of making little presents to Sam which were very encouraging.
"Boss he makee allo tim' litty cumshaw my," said Sam. "He givee my cigar: he givee my dolla. He givee my close: makee stlong cutsom givee me all ting he no wantshee. My catchee allo tim' good close, boot, tlouser, and he speakee my velly good: neber makee bobbely. Massa Quin velly good Boss, no can catchee better. Supposee klootchman no good, makee bobbely, he say 'hyack klatawa:' supposee klootchman good klootchman allo same wifo dat velly good: Massa Quin velly good and makee mo' cumshaw my."
And now there was a new klootchman.
"Ho," said Sam Lung, "ho, he bling 'nodder klootchman. My tinkee 'bout time he catchee new klootchman. He velly lestless, like he got water topside, clazy. What she like this new klootchman?"
He put his eye to the key-hole, and then drew up in disgust.
"Fo, velly dirty, cly allo tim'. She velly litty young gal. After las' wun he likee catchee young gal. Ha, my tinkee bymby she catchee wash and look velly pletty. She whitee gal my tinkee when she catchee washee."
But poor Jenny was on the floor, still crying as if her little heart would break. She was not yet able to look up and see the wonder of a nice clean house, such as she had never been in, in all her life.
"You're all right, Jenny, my dear," said Quin, "don't you cry. No one shall hurt you, my girl. I'll give you a good time, my dear. Now get up, Jenny, and look at your home, and then I'll take you into another room and find you a new dress. Come, tenas Jenny."
He spoke quite tenderly and touched Jenny's heart.
"Oh, but I have shem," she said.
"You come and mamook wash," said Quin, "and by-by we'll have muckamuck and then you'll be all right. Come now."
He lifted her to her feet, and when she felt his strong hands on her she felt a little better. It was like fate, though she knew not what fate was. He was strong and kind, and he said he loved her. She caught his hand.
"You no beat me?" she cried in a sudden passion of fear and helplessness. "You no beat me, Mr. Quin?"
"No, Jenny, no," he said. He turned her tearful dirty face round and kissed her.
"Oh, I too much dirty," she exclaimed in great distress. "No bebee me till I mamook wash."
She caught sight of herself in a big glass over the mantelpiece.
"Oh, Mr. Quin, I have shem: I so dirty. You forgive me, Mr. Quin?"
And Quin laughed a little uneasily.
"Of course, my dear, now I make a lady of you; you are so pretty, Jenny."
He went out of the room and told Sam to make a "plenty hot" bath in the bedroom. And he put out some clean clothes for her, which he took from a locked cupboard. Some were new. Most of them had been got for a Haida girl who had died of consumption two years before. But Quin had forgotten her. He spoke to Sam when the "boy" brought in the bath and water.
"Sam, you no fool, I think," he began.
"That same my tinkee, Sir," said Sam.
"I bring another klootchman here, Sam."
"Where you catchee?" asked Sam with great interest.
"You mind your own pidgin," said Quin. "Now look, Sam, I no wantshee anyone know who she is. When they ask you, you say she white woman, allo same wife, from San Francisco. If you tinkee that not true, that all right, but if you say so I fire you and give you no dolla. While she stay here and no one know who she is I give you five more dolla, moon-pidgin, every month. Now you savvy?"
Sam stood with his head on one side all the time his master spoke. He looked as intelligent as a sharp Chinaman can look, and he answered with decision and a perfect gravity.
"My savvy that plenty! You catchee one litty gal and no wantshee man savvy. Dat light, I plenty savvy. My say she numpa one pletty litty gal from San Flancisco. I savvy plenty and if litty gal stay you givee my mo' five dolla moon-pidgin. My savvy plenty. Now you washee her?"
"Fill the bath, you damn fool," said Quin.
"All li', savvy plenty," said Sam. "My cookee good dinner for Missus. Five dolla mo' velly good. My cookee velly good: makee litty gal stop allo same wifo."
And he went back to the kitchen, solemn and satisfied, but very curious to see the litty piecee gal when she was washed.
It was all an amazing dream for poor Jenny. If it had not been for the black bruise on her knee she would have thought herself in some new world. For the house was beautifully built and lined inside with red cedar. The furniture was as good as any in the City, for the tragedy of Quin's life was, that he had met a white woman, and had fallen in love with her three years ago. They were to have been married, but the woman found out about his past history, his character as a squaw-man, and threw him over. He had prepared the house for her. The dead Haida girl Lily had come instead. Jenny dreamed and wondered and half forgot that she was not good to be there. Quin was very strong, "hyu skookum," and his house was to be hers, and he would prevent Pete killing her. As she got into the hot water the tears ran down her face. But the bath was pleasant, and she was not too degraded to enjoy the cleanliness of things; and the hot water eased the tension of her mind, and it seemed suddenly as if her life with Pete was something very far off, hardly to be remembered.
And then she handled the clothes she was to wear, and the mere woman woke in her heart. Here was linen far better than that she had helped to wash for Mrs. Alexander before Pete had come and taken her from Kamloops! It was beautiful linen to her eye, and in spite of everything the pleasure she found in it was wonderful, for though she did not know it, her skin was tender and delicate and had always suffered from the stuff she had worn.
There were silk stockings!
"Mista Quin he very gleat man," said Jenny, awestruck. "Much better than any I ever see, never nanitsh any like 'em."
When she got them on she took up the dress. It was also silk, but not like the monstrous tartan the cause of all her woe. It was a dark red and fine and supple, for Lily had seen it in her last days at Victoria and Quin had bought it for her, knowing that she would never wear it. She died with it on her bed: her dead hand touched it. It made another klootchman nearly happy.
"I aflaid to wear it," said Jenny as she held it up, "it too beautiful for poor me. I don't know where I am: I feel silly, all like a dleam."
She looked at the big glass and saw herself white clad, and with the red silk in her hands. Her shoulders were white: her sun-tanned neck showed how white they were. And the red was lovely.
She put it on and she almost screamed with pleasure.
"I 'most like a lady, like Missis Alexander," she cried. And indeed there was no prettier lady within a hundred miles.
She stood and looked at herself and trembled.
"Oh, oh," said Jenny.
And then she found that the dress fastened up the back.
"I no savvy how can do it," said Jenny in great trouble. "If I do um up firs' I no get in and if I no do um up it fall off. How can white lady do, when she have no one help her?"
It was an awful puzzle which she could not solve. A worse trouble was at hand, however, for when she tried to put on the shoes meant for her they were too small.
"What I do?" asked Jenny of herself in the glass. "My ole shoes no good and my foot too big for this little shoe. I have shem go without shoe and with dless undone. I wis' I had someone help me. But alla same I very pretty I tink, but I have shame of everything. I no more good, no more virtuous—"
Her lip hung down preparatory to her bursting into tears. But Quin knocked at the door.
"Muckamuck ready, tenas Jenny," he said. And Jenny murmured that she would come directly.
"He very kind man I tink," said Jenny, "I ask him through the door if he mind I no have shoe."
The door led straight through into the sitting-room. In her turn she knocked on it timidly and opened it an inch.
"Mista Quin, I have shem—"
"Why, tenas Jenny?" asked Quin.
"I no can put on shoe," she said. Quin laughed and she shrank back.
"Come in, never mind," he said as he came to the door and pushed it open. She bent her head.
"And please, Mista Quin, I no can do dless up at back. I much aflaid it fall off."
Quin came into the room as Sam brought in the dinner. He shut the door and caught her in his arms.
"I have shem," she murmured, but he kissed her neck and mouth. "I have shem."
He did the dress up at the back and held her away from him at arm's length.
"By the Holy Mackinaw, you are a pretty girl, Jenny," he said thickly. "You bebee me now?"
The slow tears rolled down her face as she lifted it to him.
"Yes, Mista Quin, but I have shem," she said simply.
Sam banged on the door.
"Chow-chow, Sir and Missus," said Sam, who was much interested in the "love pidgin;" "Chow-chow all leady, Sir and Missus."
It was an amazing dinner for Jenny. She had never seen the like save in the kitchen of Mrs. Alexander's hotel, and if she had eaten anything half as good, it was when she was a tenas klootchman and sat outside on the wood-pile with a plate of food given her by the hotel cook.
But that Chinese cook wasn't a patch on Sam, who had been nerved to unwonted efforts by the new situation and by the extra five dollars while the new "Missus" stayed. He put out Quin's best cutlery and polished the electro-plate till it shone indeed. The glasses were like crystal and there was a bottle of champagne, made in San Francisco (and perhaps very little the worse for that, seeing the quality of western imported wines), on the full table.
Jenny gasped and sat down very humbly. But if she looked up she could see herself in a mirror opposite. It was a very strange and pretty and abashed creature that she saw, a creature who "had shame" but was too dazed to feel it greatly. For everything was so fine, and Quin was a big strong man and white-clad Sam was so polite. "You hab dis, Missus," or "my tinkee, Sir, Missus hab mo' wine." And the floor had a carpet, and there were red curtains at the window, through which she could see the shining mighty river and the far faint hills of Sumass, lighted by the sinking splendid sun.
"Oh, my dear, you are very pretty," said Quin when Sam was out of the room.
"I tink so too, Mista Quin," she said; "but I have shem to be here. I know not'ing. I velly foolish klootchman, cultus and halo good; I tink I very wicked to be here, but I like it allo same, Mista Quin."
He gave her more wine and her eyes began to sparkle. The world of yesterday, nay, even of to-day, was far off, further off than the pure faint hills.
"You be good to me, Mista Quin?"
His hard heart was touched.
"You bet, Jenny, I'll give you all you'll want."
"Ah, you very big boss," said Jenny. If he could give any human creature all she wanted he was a very big boss indeed.
"Yes, my kiddy, you forget all about everyone but me, and I'll act square to you, on my oath I will," said Big Quin. He pulled her towards him and kissed her mouth. She flamed scarlet.
"I lik' heem better'n Pete," she said. "Pete cluel to me; tear my dless. Now I have better, ah!"
The dinner came to an end and Sam brought in a lamp as the evening light faded.
"That will do, Sam. I don't want you any more," said Quin.
And when Sam had washed up he went down to a compatriot's in the City.
"My tinkee he makee love-pidgin now," said Sam, as he went. "Litty piecee gal velly pletty alla same lady, maskee she no savvy what for do with knife and fork. Dat not plopa: my tinkee her savvy velly littee. Bymby my talkee how can do with Missus. My tinkee she no flom San Flancisco. She makee hair not plopa, allo same lope. My tinkee my talkee her how can do, my savvy plenty."
But he told his gossips down below that Mista Quin had got a white woman up from San Francisco. Indeed he did not know that Jenny was no more than a quarter-breed Siwash, though he wondered at her knowing so much Chinook, of which Sam himself was very ignorant, though he savvied even how to do hair.
The world of the little Shack-Town by the Mill believed that Jenny had really fled with Shipman Jack and Pete got very drunk again that night.
"The Siwash'll be on Jack's tracks," said the Men of the Mill, "for sure he'll be after him, hyak koolie! What the thunder did the little klootchman see in Jack! Oh, hell, he warn't nothin' but a special kind of sea hobo, boys, allers on the go: a blanket-stiff at sea, that's what. And drink—we should say so! And mean, oh, there ain't words! If Pete runs into him——"
Pete wanted blood, that's a fact, but when a man wants blood and gets liquor the blood stays unshed unless the victim is right handy. That is also a fact, all wool, and a yard wide.
Another fact was of great importance, and that is that Pete owed the Mill dollars instead of the Mill owing him any, and to get across to Victoria in the Island took silver, t'kope chikamin, in the shape of dollars. And Pete couldn't swim, not so much as a hundred yards. He was no Fish Indian. And the Straits are some miles across.
Pete woke out of his drunk early in the morning and saw three facts in the light of dawn, saw them come out of the darkness and stand up before him, just as the Mill did and the tin-roofed shining Cannery across the River, where Chinamen wallowed in shining salmon for Eastern consumption. Pete saw the array of facts and at the back of his Indian brain he had a notion of destiny, as they all have. Jenny had run: he had "halo dolla," and it was a long swim across the Straits of Georgia, in spite of all the islands a man might rest at.
"She hyu bad klootchman," said Pete. "I no care one damn. I take another by-by. She too much pletty, no sit down, klatawa with Jack."
There wasn't a drink for Pete that morning, but he lighted a fire and made some "caupy" or coffee.
"I go work at Moola alla same," said Pete. "I no dlink, I make dolla: I get another good klootchman. By-by Jack go to sea, leave Jenny, she go hell. That all light. She damn bad klootchman."
So when the Whistle, the great prophet of the strenuous life, yelled the "Get up" in quick time, he was ready, and as determined as any Blackfoot at a Siwash stake to show nothing of his torment. The second whistle that shrieked "Get out" sent him off, and the day began with the usual preliminary jawing-match in the Engine-room where fiery monsters ate sawdust.
"Ha, Pete," said Skookum Charlie, whose big bulk was spread on a sawdust pile where the glare of an open furnace shone on him. "He come to wuk' alla same."
Long Mac with the blue eyes and keen clean American look was there. And next him was black-a-vised, beady-eyed Chihuahua, far more ancient Mexican than Spanish, and then Hans Anderssen and Johann Smit, both seamen. And with them showed the fair and devilish face of Spanish Joe with the beautiful voice and a soul fit for hell. And the Engineer, a little Scotty from Glasgow, went about his work with one Chinee helper as if they were not there, and only said "damn your jaw," if they got in his way.
The crowd looked at Pete, who swung in boldly enough with his head up.
"Hullo," said the crowd with sympathy. But Joe laughed.
"You' klootchman she pulled up her stakes and quit, eh?" he asked with a sneer.
"That so," said Pete quietly. "I tell her to go night befo' las' night. She no good in fac', bad klootchman, get dlunk, no savvy cook. Thlow my muckamuck on the floo'. I say go. I tink no klootchman any good. Jack Shipman soon tire of she."
"Perfectamente," said Joe, "you spik truth. All women are bad."
Scotty managed to jam Joe in the pit of the stomach with the handle of the huge wooden shovel with which he was feeding the greedy fires.
"Beg your pardon," said Scotty with a grin, "but they arn't all bad."
"Every damn one," said Joe, writhing.
"All klootchmen no good, I say," Pete cried once more.
"You had a mother, lad," said the Engineer severely.
Pete shook his head.
"That all light, Mr. Engineer, but she no good neither. She sell my poo' damn sister to the man at Kamloops that had the ranche Cultus Muckamuck Quin got now, sell her for two dolla, I tink. And now Cultus got her too."
Scotty having no more remarks to make, yanked the whistle lanyard. It was six o'clock.
"This is a hell of a country for a mahn wi' ony releegion in him," said Scotty.
He turned savagely on his Chinese helper.
"Now then, Fan, you wooden image, get a move on you: hump yersel', man, or I'll scupper you."
The gift of work to unhappy mortals is that they cannot work and be wholly unhappy, and Pete sucked a grim kind of pleasure out of the labour that was his, and found some anodyne in it for the aching wound he bore in his foolish childish heart. That day the labour was great, for Ginger White had a mind to set the pace and make it fiery. It was, as the men knew, one of his bad, his wicked days, such a day as that on which he had driven Pete's predecessor to a standstill. When Ginger's face was tallow against his fiery beard they knew what to expect, and got it every time. It was said that on these occasions he had quarrelled with his wife, but the truth is he had a vicious nature and a love of work together. It gave him pleasure to see the great saws do their work, and a greater pleasure still to see a man turn white and fail.
But now he had Pete, not Simmons, and the devil himself at the Saws would not have broken Pete that day. For there was a hard devil in his heart, and he grinned savagely as he saw White's motions get every minute quicker and quicker. He nudged Skookum Charlie.
"This Ginger White have one bad day. The debbel, how he go. You see!"
They saw. He cut them wicked slabs, slabs that had an unholy weight, with all of it in the butt. When they fell they dropped between the skids and got up and kicked. One struck Skookum on the nose and made it bleed, another threw Pete. But though they both knew that Ginger gave it them hot and heavy and wasted wood in slabs to do it, they made no sign. This was a day that no one would be beaten. All the men knew by instinct and by knowledge that this was to be a day of hell, when the cut would be great and Ginger would go home half dead with his endeavours to work them up. They set their teeth, even as the saws' teeth were set in another fashion, and prepared to chew the lumber that he hurled to them.
The atmosphere was strange, charged, electric, strained. There were days when the Tyee Sawyer left them slack, and went easy. Now they jumped, their eyes were bright, they sweated, got alive, moved like lightning. Each was an automaton; each a note struck by the Player. And he played, oh, tilikum, he played!
This was work, tilikum, such as even the Stick Moola hadn't known. The engines knew it, and the steam gauges told it and the fires, and the sawdust carriers. Chinamen knew it and shrieked horrid oaths at each other. The belts knew it and squealed. Scotty knew it and groaned, for he alone, bar accidents, could stop Ginger's drunken debauch of labour.
But the men he played on knew it best and almost cheered him when they got the pace and found it at first so easy. They were all young, not an old man among them, Ginger White himself was the senior of them all. They could love and work and fight and play hell, for they had youth in them. They had to show it to the song and dance of the Saw, the song and dance of the flying dust. The engines ran easy, and their muscles played beneath a glistening moist skin as with open shirts they did what came to their hands. "Go it, you devils," and "Let her scoot," and "Oh, hell," they said.
They smiled and were happy enough, but as the hum increased and the great skids got full over against the Pony Saw, you might have seen Long Mac's smile die down into a good settled seriousness, quite worth seeing. Long Mac had a way of dreaming as he worked, for he had a power of thought and was sadly intelligent, but when Ginger started trying them high, he had no time to think, well as he knew all things a saw-mill man may and shall know. The skids were piled high, you shall understand, you greenhorns, and he knew how it would rejoice Ginger White to see that they would take no more, while everything the wedgers-off tried to sling on the pile rolled backwards to the very rollers. That would please White: he would give a shrug of his shoulders as if to say—
"What a damned loafing lazy lot I've to do with!"
"To hell with Ginger," said Mac. He set his teeth. The lumber flew: he took risks: for swift running in a Mill means risks. Some of the lumber was shaky, ring-shakes and wind-shakes were in it, and in some of the wet-shakes fine white gum. When the saw strikes a shake the loose pieces work out: some are like to touch the teeth of the saw and get picked up! What that means is that the helper to the Pony Saw is shot at by jagged lumps of wood: they come by whizzing like a horrid bullet. Mac and his man watched and at times Mac lifted his hand and his helper ducked as the Saw said "Phit, phit," and threw things at him. It was exciting, it made the blood run fast in his veins to know that at any moment he might be killed, and be so quiet.
This was the battle of the lumber: for saws kill men and logs, kill them and maim them, oho, but the day was fine and the fight long! Down in the boom the man of the Boom, the man with the long pole, who made the logs swim to their ascent to the Temple, whence they were dragged by the Bull-Wheel, had his work cut out, but worked. If he kept Ginger waiting, Ginger would skip over the skids and come to the open way that led down to the Boom and use sulphurous language.
"What the—how the—why the—oh, hell, are we to shut down and go home? Hump yourself, Paul, hump yourself."
And much worse if it hadn't been that Paul, a thin silent dark man, was reputed dangerous, and was said to have killed a man in Texas, somewhere in the neighbourhood of El Paso, where not a few pass up the golden stairs on an unholy sudden. But the atmosphere down there is fine, in its way: you shall not believe otherwise, I entreat you.
It was towards noon when Mac had Ginger beat or near it. Or if not that, he saw that Mac wasn't to be overcome. The Trimmers, Wong, the Chinee, and Willett, the Englishman, had the thing down fine, for Wong knew his business and Willett was at hard as a keg of nails or a coil of barbed wire. He could claw and sling and work and sweat with any.
And still Ginger sent the thing going and again spurted, for Quin came in!
"Stand back, clear the track for Mr. Josephus Orange-Blossom," said the nigger, the coon, the "shiny" (not a Sheeny, by the way) of the song. That was the way Quin felt. He felt like someone in particular. Indeed he always did, but now with Jenny at his house, clad in beautiful clothes and looking "a real daisy," he was very proud of himself. That's the way the male has, if the truth be said, men or moose or wapiti, or a lion or a tiger for that matter: or, let us say, a tom-cat.
He was full of himself! And all he wanted to do now was to "fire" Pete and get him out of the place, as was natural.
Some men would have done it even without excuse, though that is difficult, but George Quin had some natural or unnatural notion of justice and couldn't go so far. He watched Pete with critical half-savage eyes. Was there a glint of pity in them? Perhaps, tilikum, for a man is hard to know.
If this was Ginger's day and Ginger's hour when Quin looked in, it was Pete's day too, for he threw his poor outraged Indian soul into labour and did, oh, he did very well. Quin saw that he did, he was pleased with the man, and seeing that he had to pay him, the work pleased him. Pete's face was hard now and his eyes glittered: his muscles stood up: his face and neck were wet: they glistened. He went like a machine: and never made a mistake. He climbed a five-foot log on the carriage close to the teeth of the saw (the sawdust was in his hair and it looked white and woolly) like a cougar, at one bound. He worked up Skookum Charlie in like manner and made the Siwash like it.
"Oh, he's good," said Quin approving and yet savage. "Oh, he's——" and then Scotty yanked the whistle lanyard and the whistle said, "Knock off, you galoots, galoots, galoo-oots!"
The men threw up their heads, and most wiped their brows as they straightened their backs and said "Oo!" They breathed and filled their lungs and then thought of their empty bellies and started for the Hash-house. But White, always polite and obsequious, stayed a while with Quin.
"We've cut a lot, Mr. Quin," said White; "the boom's nigh empty."
"More in to-day," replied Quin. "How's your wedger-off doin'? If he don't suit you, fire him, White."
"He's the best man I've had this year," said White. He did not understand why Quin grunted and turned his back on him. If he had known Pete would have gone that day.
"What's wrong?" asked White. "Well, I made 'em skip to-day."
So the men thought as they piled into the hash, and said what they thought of him and grubbed in anticipation of an afternoon the equal of the morning.
"He's a swine but a first-class sawyer, and no mistake, no fatal error, eh, what? He made us skip and sweat to-day, but never piled us up! That was what the tallow-faced swine was after, eh?"
"You bet! Here Fan Tong, or Hang Chow, more chow this way! White's a swine; oh, he made us skip."
"'E's a 'oly terror," said Willett.
"A tough from Terror Flat!"
"No razor in his boot, though! There ain't no real fight in Tallow-Chops. Pass the mustard."
What a good life it was! And the chewing was good enough for a boss hobo, death on three fine squares or set-downs, and don't you forget it!
But Pete grubbed silently in Indian Annie's, who moaned to him about Jenny.
"Damn klootchman, I forget her," said Pete. Yet many days passed and he did not forget.
When they were all out of the Mill, Quin stood and stared at the dead saws without seeing them.
"It's hard lines: but I can't fire him," said Quin.