Chapter Thirty Eight.
“Suppose we leave them there.”
Month later the people at the hong had repaired all damages, and paint and varnish had hidden unpleasantly suggestive marks; while in two months the loss was almost forgotten in the increase of trade consequent upon the peace existing in the district, maintained by an occasional visit of the gunboat upon the station, ready always to quench every piratical spark that appeared.
At first Stan had declared that he should never be able to feel settled up the river; but he did, for there was always something animated and new about the station to which the peaceful traders flocked, knowing as they did that all transactions with the English merchants meant perfect faith and nothing akin to dealings with the squeezing mandarins. In fact, the lad began to think that his busy life to and fro was, after all, one of the most happy, and that he might pick out his father and uncle as fine specimens of what English merchants might be.
“I begin to think, Uncle Jeff,” he said one day, “that a young fellow might do worse than become a merchant out here.”
“Well, yes,” said Uncle Jeff, with a smile; “he might—yes, certainly he might.”
It was one evening when Uncle Jeff, Blunt, and Stan were talking over the old trouble of the past—that is to say, about the traitor in the camp.
“Well, for my part,” said Uncle Jeff, “I give all my votes—plumpers—for poor old Wing. He never tried to destroy the ammunition. He’s true as steel.”
“I second that,” said Blunt.—“Now, Lynn, what do you say?”