Michael paused and slowly filled a second pipe. The father remained silent, his head resting on his trembling hand. He was staring into vacancy, seeing through his half-shut eyes a myriad of changing pictures.
“Michael,” he said, “have you ever thought how it will be with our people?”
“Oh, the Kanakas!” said the lay brother.
“Yes, the Samoans,” said Father Studby. “What is to become of them, Michael?”
“They will go,” said the young man, coolly, “where the inferior race always goes in a gold rush. They will go to the devil.”
“Oh, Michael,” exclaimed the priest, “I cannot bear to think of them!”
“I am sure I am sorry, too,” said the lay brother. “But there is no use blinking our eyes to facts, or feeling miserable about what can’t be helped. The men must learn to work like other people, and I look to you, with your influence here, to line them up on the right side. Fifty or sixty of them would be worth everything to us at the start. As for the nigger women, if they are young and pretty, I dare say a use can be found for them, too. I am sorry, but what can you do? You can’t put back the clock, old fellow.”
The priest groaned.
“I wish you had never found the gold!” he cried out passionately.
“Well, it is too late now,” said Michael.