"What's the lowest vermin on earth?... Why, the white who's forgot his own race. It's hard enough at best—isn't it?—to keep yourself topside with your right authority among a few million saddle-colored monkeys. But along comes a rascal like that and lives on the folk: acts like 'em; looks like 'em; drinks like 'em—by God! Then where's your sanguinary prestige gone?"
He knew how to stir these listless exiles.
"I tell you, when a blasted tramp goes native altogether he needs to be taught what white men think of him, and where he belongs. He's a pest and a danger.... I'd like to see him and every other like him wiped out of the islands. It's a common duty to suppress the whole filthy crew of 'em!"
They caught some of his energy—some of his superior biting viciousness as well. Especially the loafers were roused by a call to higher things. The benzoin merchant, betraying a habit acquired in a ruder society, groped vaguely at his hip. The engineer sought a billiard cue that balanced better to his fancy. Only the little clerk retained official scruples and timidly doubted if there was any order against juggling, as such.
"There's an order against vagrants," countered Silva.
"But, after all, if he has a trade of his own—"
"Trade be damned. He comes begging—doesn't he? And if you want to bet he's not a fraud besides—."
"We might give him a chance."
"It's what I mean!" cried Silva. "We'll give him a chance, for true.... Look here—"