"Oh, I got some piecee children, maybe three, four"
"For God's sake, don't you know how many children you've got?"
"Yes, sir, Cappen. I got four piecee, all go 'way. Maybe some dead. I no hear"
"Hm-m" The captain knit his brows ponderously, a habit he had acquired in the last few years, and fixed a severe glance on the old Chinaman. "Don't you ever want to go home?"
"Oh, no, Cappen. Why fo' I go home? I b'long ship side"
After waiting a moment in silence for further questions, Wang realized that the conversation was not to be concluded this time. He turned slowly and shuffled off through the forward cabin, head bent and eyes peering hard at the floor. Captain Sheldon did not see him stumble heavily against the corner of the settee.
In the protection of the pantry, Wang put down the pan of brick-dust and stood for a long time motionless, holding the dirty rags in the other hand, facing the window above the dresser. He could see the small square of light plainly, but the rest of the room was vague. His tiny, inanimate figure, in the midst of the dim clutter of the room, expressed a weary relaxation; he stood like a man lost in vacant thought. No one would have suspected the feelings behind the wizened face; Wang's countenance, as he gazed steadfastly at the square of light, was an expressionless blank. He seemed scarcely to breathe; the spark of life seemed to have sunk low within him, to have retreated in fear or impotence. The hand holding the rags paused rigidly, as if petrified in the act of putting down its grimy burden. Had Captain Sheldon come upon him at that moment, he would have ordered him shortly to get busy, begin to do something.
All his thoughts, in the silence of the pantry, were of loyalty. That uncommunicative intimacy of the past had been fruitful to one, at least, of the parties to the contract. "Young Cappen" who as a boy had been Wang's pride and charge, was his pride and charge still. Had not "Old Cappen" on his deathbed, whispered the final order "Keep an eye on the boy, Wang. He's stepping high now—but the time may come when he will need you" But of these words, his father's last utterance "Young Cappen" of course knew nothing. They remained a profound secret between Wang and the dead.
If it were true, Wang recognized in that unwavering gaze, that his days of usefulness were over, he would no longer be able to discharge this obligation. Not that his strength was less; his withered, cord-like sinews ached to scrub and polish, to keep his domain in its old efficient order. But this voyage he hadn't been able to see what needed to be done. He had hardly dared allow his mind to formulate the explanation. But now he must face it. He was going blind.
He comprehended fully the meaning of the recent conversation in the after cabin. The pain that held him inert and motionless was half of love and half of fear. Perhaps, he tried to tell himself "Young Cappen" was now safely launched on the sea of life; perhaps he no longer had need of an old man's service. Yet, in the same moment of thought, Wang knew that this was not the fact. The knowledge filled him with a desperate tenacity; until fate actually laid him low, he could not submit to the turn of fortune. Old and wise in life, he realized that "Young Cappen's" hardest lessons still lay ahead of him. He must serve as long as he was able.