A look at Tilghman’s white face convinced Barclay that he was telling the truth, and his interest quickened; the scuffle had not been entirely opéra bouffe after all. Drawing out his flask he passed it to Tilghman.
“It hurts my pride,” went on Tilghman, seating himself in the next chair, “to be licked by a little slip of a man in such a rough and tumble encounter.”
“Muscle doesn’t stand much show against jiu-jutsu.” Barclay declined the other’s offer of a cigarette. “Better think a second time before tackling a Jap,” he cautioned.
“A Jap!” echoed Tilghman, and he smiled queerly as he selected a cigarette. “The color line is so closely drawn in this section of the world I’m surprised the railroad officials permit a yellow man to travel on the San Francisco, New Orleans, and Washington Express except in the ‘Jim Crow’ car.”
“That sounds like insular prejudice,” smiled Barclay. “Except for your name and accent, which proclaim you a Marylander, I should hail you as——”
“A Californian?” Tilghman nodded. “It’s the state of my adoption. We manage everything better out there.”
“Well, why not stay in California?” Barclay rapped out the abrupt question, never taking his eyes from his good-looking companion, whose white cheeks were regaining a more healthy hue from the stimulant he was slowly sipping.
“I had to come east to protest against government ownership of oil lands in California. I’m one of the unfortunate devils who invested money there before the public land was withdrawn from entry by executive order. Congress is to legislate on the question shortly. I believe Navy Department officials are chiefly responsible for the deadlock.”
“I take it your sympathies are for a little navy?”
“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” protested Tilghman, with more warmth than the occasion seemed to justify. “Just because I don’t believe in government ownership of oil lands.”