“Can do,” the clerk said, and went out.
Tom Carruthers stood by the window, doing nothing in particular, but watching with a rueful, puzzled face the seething, jabbering coolies outside. He swung round as the clerk went. “I say, Holman, what is all this? A third demand to-day for more wages!”
Holman pushed a ledger aside abruptly. “That’s what I am trying to find out, young man,” he said—“just exactly what it all means.”
The compradore came in a moment—a middle-aged Chinese, as capable looking in his way as Holman was in his. He stood waiting stolidly for the manager to speak, but Holman delayed a little, measuring the Mongol with his shrewd blue eyes before he said: “Look here, compradore, what the devil is the matter with your coolies now? Why have they struck work again, and why the blue blazes have you let them, when you know how late we’re with the loading of the Fee Chow already, that she’ll miss the tide if there’s more delay, and that she must not miss the tide? Eh?”
“Coolie men talkee muchee”—the compradore said it sadly. “They talkee stlikee.”
“Strike!” Tom Carruthers cried. “Strike! That’s the limit! A strike halfway through loading. You damn well tell them——”
But Holman interrupted sharply, “Hush, Mr. Carruthers, please. Leave this to me. Now, compradore, what’s the grievance? Come, out with it, chop, chop!”
“Coolie man likee work,” the compradore replied gently, “no likee money. No plenty money, no can catchee plenty Chow-chow. They talkee me they wantee more money.”
“All right, then——” Holman began crisply.
“What?” Carruthers broke in excitedly. Holman paid no attention to that, but continued to the Chinese, “Tell them double pay if she’s loaded up to time.”