“Now I suppose you'll go to my father!” he cried. “Well, go ahead! Do it! I don't care. I'm of age—my money's my own. He can't hurt me. And he knows I'm on to him. Don't think I don't know some of the things he's done—he and his crowd. Ah, we're not saints, we Kanes! We're good fellows—we've got pep, we succeed—but we're not saints.”
“How long have you been smoking opium?” asked the mate.
“I don't smoke it! I mean I never did. Not until Shanghai. And you needn't think the pater hasn't hit the pipe a bit himself. I never saw a lamp until he took me to the big Hong dinner at Shanghai last month. They had 'em there. And it wasn't all they had, either—”
“If you are telling me the truth,” said the mate.
—“I am. I tell you I am.”
“—Then you should have no difficulty in stopping. It would take a few weeks to form the habit. You can't smoke another pipe on this boat.”
“But what right—good lord, if the pater would drag me out here, away from all my friends.... you think I'm a rotter, don't you!”
“My opinion is not in question. I must ask you to give me, now, whatever opium you have.”
Slowly, moodily, evidently dwelling in a confusion of sulky resentful thoughts, the boy knelt at the cupboard and got out a small card-board box.
The mate opened it, and found several shells of opium within. He promptly pitched it out over the rail.