“How do you know?” Deacon demanded truculently, and then went on to deny the half-caste's knowledge. “You chaps put on a lot of side over a new chum. I've done some sailing myself, and this naming a craft when its sail is only a blur, or naming a man by the sound of his anchor—it's—it's unadulterated poppycock.”
Peter Gee was engaged in lighting a cigarette, and did not answer.
“Some of the niggers do amazing things that way,” McMurtrey interposed tactfully.
As with the others, this conduct of their visitor jarred on the manager. From the moment of Peter Gee's arrival that afternoon Deacon had manifested a tendency to pick on him. He had disputed his statements and been generally rude.
“Maybe it's because Peter's got Chink blood in him,” had been Andrews' hypothesis. “Deacon's Australian, you know, and they're daffy down there on colour.”
“I fancy that's it,” McMurtrey had agreed. “But we can't permit any bullying, especially of a man like Peter Gee, who's whiter than most white men.”
In this the manager had been in nowise wrong. Peter Gee was that rare creature, a good as well as clever Eurasian. In fact, it was the stolid integrity of the Chinese blood that toned the recklessness and licentiousness of the English blood which had run in his father's veins. Also, he was better educated than any man there, spoke better English as well as several other tongues, and knew and lived more of their own ideals of gentlemanness than they did themselves. And, finally, he was a gentle soul. Violence he deprecated, though he had killed men in his time. Turbulence he abhorred.
He always avoided it as he would the plague.
Captain Stapler stepped in to help McMurtrey:
“I remember, when I changed schooners and came into Altman, the niggers knew right off the bat it was me. I wasn't expected, either, much less to be in another craft. They told the trader it was me. He used the glasses, and wouldn't believe them. But they did know. Told me afterward they could see it sticking out all over the schooner that I was running her.”