He resumed his seat; twitched for a time with increasing nervousness; got up and went aimlessly over to the desk; asked the Malay clerk for mail.
A smiling little Japanese appeared, rather officious about a great lot of bags and a trunk or two that were coming in. He had a familiar look; even raised his hat and stepped forward with outstretched hand. It was Kato.... And then Dawley Kane came in—tall, quiet, neatly dressed, his nearly white mustache newly cropped.
To his pale son Dawley Kane said merely—“Well!”—as he took his hand; and then was busy registering. That done, he asked: “Had dinner?” Rocky shook his head. “I don't care for any.” Daw ley Kane's quietly keen eyes surveyed his son. “What's the matter? Not well.”
“I'm well enough.”
“Sit down with me, can't you?” And turning to the attending Japanese he said: “You'll excuse me Kato. I'll be dining with my son. And tell Mr. Braker, please.... Just a minute Rocky, till I wash my hands.”
They were shown to a table in the great diningroom, where the cackling was louder than in the lounge (they dine late on the coast)—where blue-gowned waiters moved softly about as if there had never been a revolution and wine glasses glistened and prettily bared shoulders gleamed roundly under the electric lights.
And Rocky, seated gloomily opposite this powerful quiet man—who took him unerringly in of course; dishearteningly, Rocky felt—found himself in a depression deeper than any he had known before. His father was so strong and he brought back with him the enveloping atmosphere of the mighty, splendidly successful white world in which they both belonged—a world that crushed the heart out of weaker peoples while it blandly talked the moralities. He felt it as a Juggernaut. It had the amazingly successful racial blend of character and plausibility. That would be the British quality; and, more roughly and confusedly, the American.
“Getting rather interesting up the river.” remarked Dawley Kane, over his soup. “How'd you get down?”
“On a junk.”
“Any trouble?”