When we turn in at last to our beds nothing more has happened, and Jones has not appeared. I have been asleep for a little while when I hear a subdued whispering on the verandah outside my window, and jumping up I put my head out. There stands Clay in his pyjamas with a man I recognise as the night-watchman, a European. Clay sees me and waves his hand, and as the watchman disappears he comes over to me. "Strang has just been up to tell me that the Chinamen have carried the poor beggar out of the house and laid him on the bank of the river," he says in a low voice; "that means to say they think he's dying, and they wouldn't have him in their house, or his spirit would settle down there. That's a good job for us, or by the morning he'll be spirited away! There's the little tug ready, and it will soon run him up to New Westminster hospital. I'm just going down to see the poor chap aboard."
"What about Jones? Aren't you going to send him off too?" I asked.
"No fear! He'll have to swallow his gruel. We can't spare him. Where would I get another man from at this time of the season? Besides, that would look as if he were afraid of them. We've lost hours of precious time with his foolery already," he adds savagely, and I can guess the headstrong Jones has "caught it" from his chief!
Next morning still no Jones, and all seems as usual; work is resumed, the Chinamen ask no questions as to their wounded comrade, and peace reigns. About eleven o'clock Clay comes up from the works hurriedly and gives a whistle, and from one of the bedroom doors emerges Jones, looking rather like a schoolboy who has been in disgrace and means to carry it off with swagger.
When we get out on the verandah we find the rest of the white men belonging to the place all gathered together with revolvers in their hands, and with one consent they move off toward the big shed. For the life of me I can't keep out of it, and it would be rather hard to stop your going. I wouldn't miss seeing Jones reintroduced to his friends the Chinamen for anything. Come on, but let us keep behind where we shan't be noticed, or Mr. Clay would send us back at once.
There is a busy hum surging out of the factory as we approach, and the noise of it rings out on the still air; then, as the white men appear in a little knot in the doorway, there is a dead pause, a silence so sudden and dramatic that it seems as if one's heart must stop beating. The half-dozen white men stroll up the gangway carelessly, but you note they all keep together, until Jones, who doubtless has got his orders, separates himself from the others and walks briskly ahead. His face is very white as he bends over a Chinaman and glances at his work in as natural a manner as he can command, then he looks sharply at another and tells him to go ahead and not waste time. Hands grow busy, the noise recommences, and in a few minutes the buzz rises again to concert pitch. The critical moment has been safely passed. We follow the others into the building and walk the whole length of it and back, and by the time we get to the doorway again no one could tell that anything unusual had happened.
However, I shouldn't care to be Mr. Jones on Lulu Island, and if I were he I should apply for a job elsewhere at the end of the season!
