"I tell you what, Stanley," said the admiral, "I don't care what they did to me, for it's done me no harm. But after this you should be able to make them enforce the laws. If they would only do that, the Pacific Coast wouldn't stink so in the nostrils of shipmasters and shipowners."
The consul explained the local system of politics. It appeared that every one with any business on the borders of crime insured against the results of accidents by being in politics.
"And if the thieving politicians appoint the man to control them, what's the result?"
"The result is—Shanghai Smith," said the admiral. "Well, I'll see you later. I've an appointment with Mr. Sant, of the Harvester."
The consul stared.
"What, with Sant? Why, he got eighteen months' hard labour for killing a man six months ago."
"But he's not in prison?"
"Of course not," said the consul. "He was pardoned by the Governor."
"He's just the man I wish to see," cried Dicky Dunn.
He found Sant waiting at Cartwright's office. He was a hard-bitted, weather-beaten gentleman, and half his face was jaw. That jaw had hold of a long cigar with his back teeth. He continued smoking and chewing, and did both savagely. What Peter had said to him did not come out, but by agreement the admiral was introduced as Mr. Dunn.