IV
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 in Teaser piah-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.