"I go work at Moola alla same," said Pete. "I no dlink, I make dolla: I get another good klootchman. By-by Jack go to sea, leave Jenny, she go hell. That all light. She damn bad klootchman."
So when the Whistle, the great prophet of the strenuous life, yelled the "Get up" in quick time, he was ready, and as determined as any Blackfoot at a Siwash stake to show nothing of his torment. The second whistle that shrieked "Get out" sent him off, and the day began with the usual preliminary jawing-match in the Engine-room where fiery monsters ate sawdust.
"Ha, Pete," said Skookum Charlie, whose big bulk was spread on a sawdust pile where the glare of an open furnace shone on him. "He come to wuk' alla same."
Long Mac with the blue eyes and keen clean American look was there. And next him was black-a-vised, beady-eyed Chihuahua, far more ancient Mexican than Spanish, and then Hans Anderssen and Johann Smit, both seamen. And with them showed the fair and devilish face of Spanish Joe with the beautiful voice and a soul fit for hell. And the Engineer, a little Scotty from Glasgow, went about his work with one Chinee helper as if they were not there, and only said "damn your jaw," if they got in his way.
The crowd looked at Pete, who swung in boldly enough with his head up.
"Hullo," said the crowd with sympathy. But Joe laughed.
"You' klootchman she pulled up her stakes and quit, eh?" he asked with a sneer.
"That so," said Pete quietly. "I tell her to go night befo' las' night. She no good in fac', bad klootchman, get dlunk, no savvy cook. Thlow my muckamuck on the floo'. I say go. I tink no klootchman any good. Jack Shipman soon tire of she."
"Perfectamente," said Joe, "you spik truth. All women are bad."
Scotty managed to jam Joe in the pit of the stomach with the handle of the huge wooden shovel with which he was feeding the greedy fires.