The subtle-eyed Chinaman ceased neither to smile nor to stare.
"My t'ink you velly sick man. Two shillin' to pay, please."
"Sick!" repeated the mate. "Sick! You you know, do ye?"
The idle men who lounged behind were spectators to the drama, absorbed but uncomprehending. They saw the fierce, absurdly-clad sailor, swaying on his feet with the effects of long-endured heat and thirst, confronting the suave composure of the Chinaman as though the charge of being unwell were outrageous and shameful.
"Say," he demanded hoarsely, "it, it don't show on me."
The Chinaman made soothing gestures. "My see," he answered. "But dem feller belong here, him not see nothing. All-a-light foh him. Two shillin' to pay, please."
The mate dragged a coin from his pocket and dropped it on the bar. He turned at last to the others, as though he now first noticed them.
"What's back of here?" he asked abruptly, motioning as he spoke to the still palms which poised over the galvanized iron roofs.
"How d'you mean?" A tall, willowy man in pajamas answered him surprisedly. "There's nothing beyond here. It's just wild country."
"No white men?" asked the mate.