"Two o'clock," he answered and looked at his watch. It was past noon. He told Chang to call Suki, the flat-faced woman who ran the hotel servants and who had been so good to him in his first few weeks ashore when the doctors were shrugging their shoulders doubtfully; and her daughter, Oki, and the boy he had nicknamed "Sweeney." He had a little present and a gold piece for each of them—two for Suki.
There were big tears in "Sweeney's" black eyes when "the honorable captain gentleman" said good-by to him. He would never forget him.
"Yes; you will forget, 'Sweeney,'" Whitridge said in Japanese, with a little laugh.
"Oh, yes," agreed Suki, "he will forget. Men forget, but women always remember."
"You know a lot about life, Suki," he answered and turned and went into the hotel office.
At Whitridge's appearance the boyish-looking clerk behind the desk flushed guiltily and hid something under a book. Whitridge handed him an odd silver cigarette case which the young fellow had often admired.
"Just a token for your kindness, my boy," he said.
"Gee, I—I'm sorry you're going away, Captain—Whitr—Whitridge," stammered the clerk and faltering peculiarly at the name. "I'll always keep this. What you've said has braced me up and—as soon as I get a little more money together I'm going home. Good-by and—and the best of luck to you."
"Good-by and good luck to you," said the departing guest, shaking the young fellow's hand heartily. "You'll come through all right."
The clerk's gaze followed Whitridge and Chang through the door and until they were clear of the grounds. Then he pulled out an old newspaper. It was what he had hidden at Whitridge's unexpected appearance. Chang had dropped it in packing Whitridge's things. For several minutes he studied the face which looked up at him from a mass of black headlines. It was a portrait of Whitridge beyond a doubt.