why the blue blazes have you let them, when you know how late we're with the loading of the Fee Chow already, that she'll miss the tide if there's more delay, and that she must not miss the tide? Eh?"
"Coolie men talkee muchee"—the compradore said it sadly. "They talkee stlikee."
"Strike!" Tom Carruthers cried. "Strike! That's the limit! A strike halfway through loading. You damn well tell them"
But Holman interrupted sharply, "Hush, Mr. Carruthers, please. Leave this to me. Now, compradore, what's the grievance? Come, out with it, chop, chop!"
"Coolie man likee work," the compradore replied gently, "no likee money. No plenty money, no can catchee plenty Chow-chow. They talkee me they wantee more money."
"All right, then" Holman began crisply.
"What?" Carruthers broke in excitedly. Holman paid no attention to that, but continued to the Chinese, "Tell them double pay if she's loaded up to time."
"Can do," the other answered, and went slowly out.
"Well, I'm blowed!" Tom gasped.
Holman went wearily to the window, and stood watching moodily the human yellow kaleidoscope. The compradore was among them now, and gradually the trouble cooled and slacked, and the men began to slouch off to work, but reluctantly, the manager thought. Things looked ugly to him—very ugly.
"I say, Holman," Carruthers persisted impatiently, "isn't that playing rather into those chaps' hands?"
Holman was furious—he had been furious for days now—and he welcomed some human thing upon which he dared to vent his rage. He was "about fed up" with the frets and troubles of the last week. He fixed
