Round the Wonderful World

by G. E. Mitton

Afterwards we stroll through the Chinamen's house. It is a queer-looking place, with bunks ranged along the walls and a huge wooden table down the middle, where just now numbers of complacent Chinamen are sitting down to a midday meal of rice with cooked fish. As we pass along we see that each man keeps his little treasures beside his bunk, for, though so impassive, the Chinaman is a home-loving creature; there are little images of carved ivory and other small treasures. Do you see that white rat with pink eyes restlessly doing sentry-go in his cage?

Behind the house, and some distance off, is the Indian village, where we see great barn-like buildings; here the Siwash Indians live, and several of their flat-faced, broad-nosed children are tumbling about and playing; as we come up one sturdy youngster raises a heavy stick and flings it with all his force at a wretched little seal tied up by a flapper. Mr. Clay goes quickly forward and catches hold of the little Indian boy, and the women all rush out and talk at a tremendous rate; it ends in the manager giving a trifle for the seal and making a signal to his men, who take up the poor little beast and carry it off to put an end to it mercifully. He does not put it back in the water, because seals do much mischief in breaking the nets. The Indian children don't mean to be cruel, but they have no imagination.

Then we go on a voyage of inspection all round the place. We saw the fish when they were first landed from the nets, and the next proceeding is when they are slit open by the Indian women, who cut off their heads and tails and throw them into vats of salt and water. After this they are fished out and chopped into round pieces to fit the tins. This is done by Chinamen, who get so clever at it that they can judge exactly how much to put into each tin to make just one pound weight; the tins are weighed as they pass on, and all those not right are sent back to be done again. The tins which pass the test roll down an inclined shute. Look at them, one after the other, exactly as if they were alive! As they run they roll in soldering stuff, so that their lids are sealed on the way. But they have many other processes to go through before they can be shipped off. Immense care is taken to get all the air out of the tin, because if any were left in the fish would go bad. They are tried and tested time after time at every stage. The salmon is cooked when already in the tin, and the heating is so severe that all the bone becomes soft too. You know this well in tinned salmon, don't you? You know, too, the look of the tins, with their gaudy-coloured labels, as they are sold in shops in England? These labels are stuck on after they leave the cannery, which deals with the insides, not the outsides, of the tins. There is a sarcastic saying at the canneries, "Eat what you can and can what you cannot," but this is not fair, for the very greatest trouble is taken to ensure the fish being quite good. When all is ready, sailing ships come and are loaded up and carry off the season's catch to all parts of the world. And this is going on all along the coast at many and many a cannery, day after day, week after week, during the fishing season.

There is so much to see that when we leave the last shed the day is almost gone. At that moment two Chinamen pass us carrying a pig suspended from a pole by its four feet tied together. The poor little beast is going to be killed, for the Chinese are very fond of pork.

When we sit on the verandah after dinner, trying vainly to keep off the mosquitoes by smoking strong tobacco, we are joined by one of the assistant managers, a man named Jones, who has fiery red hair and, I should judge, a peppery temper. He is very angry about something, and several times Mr. Clay tries to argue with him and calm him down; it seems that he has had a row with a Chinaman. This morning he spoke sharply to the man, who went stolidly on with his work without seeming to notice it, but later on, meeting Mr. Jones outside, the Chinaman drew the knife which they all carry in their belts, and muttered something threatening to his superior. This evening Mr. Jones keeps saying again and again in an excited way, "Leave him to me, I'll settle his hash," and Mr. Clay repeatedly tells him that he can report the man, who can be fined, but that it would be rash to tackle anything of that sort single-handed, as the Chinamen all stand together and are like an enraged swarm of hornets if any one of their number is touched.

However, next day we hear nothing more and spend a lazy morning wandering about a little and sitting on the verandah until Mr. Clay turns up about midday and says, "Come and see all the men leaving work for dinner; you missed that yesterday, and it is quite a sight."

So we go across with him to the big shed. Just as we reach it we hear a furious noise like the buzz of hornets, and coming quickly round a corner we run into an angry and excited crowd of Chinamen rushing this way and that, and stabbing at random in the air with their knives.

"That fool!" ejaculates Clay. "He's done something!" and before we realise what he intends to do, he is right in among the mob of Chinamen, knives and all, without a sign of fear. You and I are too much interested to go away, but we keep well on the outskirts of the crowd. The roar redoubles as Clay is seen, but after a while it dies away a little, and then a small party emerge from among the rest, carrying one of their number, unconscious, between them, and as they pass on down to the house where they live, the others hurry after them, still chattering and brandishing their knives.

Clay is much upset. "That fool!" he says again, and there is a deep fold of anxiety on his forehead. "This morning he took down with him to the sheds a piece of lead-piping, and stood by the door there, and as the men came out one by one, he marked the one who threatened him yesterday and dropped him with a stunning blow on the back of the neck. I don't think he's killed the fellow. Luckily it takes a lot to kill a Chinaman, but we'll have no end of a shindy over this; they'll lose days of work, and the worst is, Jones has disappeared—no one knows where he is."

All the afternoon the place is in a blaze of excitement, and, as Mr. Clay foresaw, no work is done. Every now and then we can see, from where we are sitting on the verandah, a band of Chinamen burst out of their house flourishing knives and shouting and rushing about and then quieting down and slinking back. If Jones shows himself now his life won't be worth an instant's purchase! I try to get out of Clay what he means to do, but he won't tell me, yet I am sure, from something he let fall, that he has discovered the whereabouts of his junior, and I should not be surprised if the man was in this house.