The Pagan Madonna
permitted a visitor to pass him. To Cleigh this was the handle he had been hunting for. He summoned the man.

“Get your duffle,” said Cleigh.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Get your stuff. You’re through. You had positive orders, and you let a man by.”

“But his uniform fussed me, sir. I didn’t know just how to act.”

“Get your stuff! Mr. Cleve will give you your pay. My orders are absolute. Off with you!”

The sailor sullenly obeyed. He found the first officer alone in the chart house.

“The boss has sent me for my pay, Mr. Cleve. I’m fired.” Flint grinned amiably.

“Fired? Well, well,” said Cleve, “that’s certainly tough luck—all this way from home. I’ll 96 have to pay you in Federal Reserve bills. The old man has the gold.”

96

“Federal Reserve it is. Forty-six dollars in Uncle Samuels.”

The first officer solemnly counted out the sum and laid it on the palm of the discharged man.

“Tough world.”

“Oh, I’m not worrying! I’ll bet you this forty-six against ten that I’ve another job before midnight.”

Mr. Cleve grinned.

“Always looking for sure-thing bets! Better hail that bumboat with the vegetables to row you into town. The old man’ll dump you over by hand if he finds you here between now and sundown.”

“I’ll try the launch there. Tell the lad his fare ain’t goin’ back to Shanghai. Of course it makes it a bit inconvenient, packing and unpacking; but I guess I can live through it. But what about the woman?”

Cleve plucked at his chin.

“Messes up the show a bit. Pippin, though. I like ’em when they walk straight and look straight like this one. Notice her hair? You 
 Prev. P 55/167 next 
Back Top
Privacy Statement Terms of Service Contact