"Couldn't ever be proved," muttered Nivin at last.
"Of course not," agreed Tunstal genially. "Who wants to prove it? And anyway the commodity is still in transit—coming in from those coast villages, very likely."
"What would they be doing here?"
"Oh, they probably have a local clearing house for the trade," said Tunstal, learned in wickedness.
"Why should you think so?"
"Well, observe the commodity again. It hasn't been delivered, has it? You'll notice it shows no stain of cinnabar—yet!"...
The mate's face was stony as he stood gripping the rail, but Tunstal only smiled with the proper cynical detachment of the globe-trotter. From a silver case he drew a fat and sophisticated cigar to adorn that smile.
"And so much for your superior Malay. Chief, I'm surprised at you, trying to string me. Fancy a native how you like, but don't put it on grounds of respect—because I know 'em. I've seen 'em pretty much, and I've no more respect for any coffee-shaded tribe using two legs instead of four than I have for so many monkeys. Monkeys—that's what they are. Apes!
"Play with 'em? Sure. It's all they're fit for—cute little rascals sometimes too. But they simply have no moral sense. I take 'em as I find 'em; always ready for any of their cunning little games, you understand. Now here's this burg. I don't expect a complete Arabian Night's Dream, but I'm dead sure of finding a joint of some kind, and I mean to look it over—the place where the monkeys perform for you."
"I can't help you," said Nivin, tight-lipped. "You may be right—and yet I'd swear these people have never been spoiled. There's so few whites come here. You see, sir, you're pretty far East—"