Peter permitted himself to frown, as if he had reached a negative decision. Harrison, torn by desire, flung himself down on his ragged knees, and sobbed on Peter's hand. Peter pushed him away loathfully.
"What is my task?"
Harrison sank back on his heels, oblivious of the wet streak which ran down from his eyes on either side of his thin, sharp nose, and delved nervously into his pocket. He withdrew a lump of black gum, about the size of a black walnut, broke off a fragment with his finger-nails, and masticated it slowly. He smirked sagely.
"He won't care. Why should he care?"
"Who, my son?"
"That man—that man who owns Len Yang, and me, and these rat-eaters. All he wants is results."
"Ah, yes. He owns other mines?"
"What does he care about the mines? Of course he directs the other mines by wireless. He owns a sixth of the world. He does. He is rich. Rich! You and I are poor fools. He gives me opium"—Harrison glared and gulped—"and he does not ask questions."
"Wise men learn without asking questions, my son," said Peter gravely.
"Certainly they do! He knows everything, and he never asks a question. Not a one! He answers them, he does!"