"So you are one of those missionaries."
"I am."
"Been gettin' a pretty fine collection of souls saved."
"I never saved a soul. Never expect to."
The mate chuckled to himself. But the point was lost on the tea-buyer. He thought that he had scored.
"Glad to see that you have come round to my point of view," he said; "and that there is one missionary honest enough to acknowledge it."
"And what is your point of view?"
"My point of view is that the red-skins and the black-skins and the brown-skins and the yaller-skins ain't got any souls, any more than a dog has."
"I do not know of any reason why the colour of a man's skin should affect his possession of a soul." MacKay spoke very quietly. The tea-buyer began to bluster.
"Reason or no reason, no man is going to make me believe that any of the niggers or Chinees or any of the rest of them have souls. Christian or no Christian, a nigger is a nigger, a Chinee is a Chinee, a Dago is a Dago, and a Sheeny is a Sheeny from first to last. All the missionary talk and missionary money-getting is nothing but damned graft, and the missionaries know it. Boy! One piecee whiskey-soda! Chop-chop!"