“Certainly I am,” Elliott proclaimed. “And you—”
The little steamer rammed the wharf with a thump that set everything jingling on board. The gangplank was run out; the old man dived into the cabin in evident search for something or some one, and Elliott lost sight of him, and went ashore.
Macao slumbered in profound serenity. As soon as the excursionists had scattered, the Praya Grande was deserted. The great white houses seemed asleep or dead behind their close green shutters and wrought iron lattices that reminded Elliott of the Mexican southwest. But the air was clear and fresh, and it was possible to walk about without being drenched with perspiration. Elliott strolled, lounged on the benches in the deserted park, visited the monument to Camoens above the bay, and finally ate a supper at the only decent hotel in the place, and enjoyed it thoroughly because it contained neither English nor Chinese dishes.
In the evening there was a little more animation. There were strollers about the streets like himself; the band played in the park, and through the iron-barred windows he caught occasional mysterious glimpses of dark and seductive eyes under shadowy lashes. As he sauntered past the blank front of a great stone house that in the days of Macao’s greatness had possibly been the home of a prince, he was stopped by a silk-clad coolie who lounged beside the wide, arched entrance.
“Chin-chin master. You wantchee makee one piecey fan-tan pidgin?”
Elliott had no idea of playing, but he had no objection to watching a little “fan-tan pidgin,” and he allowed the Celestial “capper” to introduce him through the iron gate that barred the archway. The arch was as long as a tunnel, leading to the square patio at the heart of the house, and here the scene was sufficiently curious.
Here the fan-tan tables were set, completely hidden from Elliott’s view by the packed mass of men that stood above them. Over each table burned a ring of gas-jets; far above them the stars shone clear in the blue sky beyond the roofless court. Round the patio ran a wide balcony, dimly lighted, where men were drinking at little tables or leaning over to look down at the game, and there was a scurrying to and fro of deft, white-robed Chinese waiters. Round the games there was absolute silence, except for the click of the counters, the rattle of the coin, and the impassive voice of the dealer as he announced, “Number one side!”
Elliott pushed into the nearest group till he could see the table. Opposite to him sat the dealer, a yellow Portuguese half-caste, his hands full of small gilded counters; and beside him the croupier leaned over shallow boxes of gold, silver, and bills. The centre of the table was covered with a large square piece of sheet lead, with each side numbered, and coins scattered about the sides and corners. The dealer filled both his slim, dirty hands with the gilded counters and counted them out in little piles of four each. There were two counters left over.
“Number two side!” he announced, wearily.
Those who had staked their money upon the second side of the leaden square were at once paid three times their stake by the croupier; those who had placed their bets at the corner of the first and second, or the second and third were paid even money. The dealer again plunged his hands into the great heap of shining counters.