The mate's eyes were taking in keenly the crowded little room.
“Well,” cried Kane petulantly, “that's all, isn't it? I understand! I'll let her alone!”
“You don't feel that an apology might be due?”
“Apologize? To that girl?”
“To her father.”
“Apologize—to a Chink?”
The word grated strangely on Doane's nerves. Suddenly the boy cried out: “Well—that's all? There's nothing more you want to say? What are you—what are you looking like that for?”
The sober deep-set eyes of the mate were resting on the high dresser at the head of the berths. There, tucked away behind the water caraffe, was a small lamp with a base of cloisonné work in blue and gold and a small, half globular chimney of soot-blackened glass.
“What are you looking at? What do you mean?”
The boy writhed under the steady gaze of this huge man, who rested a big hand on the upper berth and gazed gravely down at him; writhed, tossed out a protesting arm, got to his feet and stood with a weak effort at defiance.