The Greatest Adventures Boxed Set: Jack London Edition. Jack London
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“You mean you won’t give me action?” Deacon asked hoarsely. “You mean that with eight thousand of my money you’re going to quit?”
Grief smiled and shook his head.
“It’s robbery, plain robbery,” Deacon went on. “You take my money and won’t give me action.”
“No, you’re wrong. I’m perfectly willing to give you what action you’ve got coming to you. You’ve got two thousand pounds of action yet.”
“Well, we’ll play it,” Deacon took him up. “You cut.”
The game was played in silence, save for irritable remarks and curses from Deacon. Silently the onlookers filled and sipped their long Scotch glasses. Grief took no notice of his opponent’s outbursts, but concentrated on the game. He was really playing cards, and there were fifty-two in the deck to be kept track of, and of which he did keep track. Two thirds of the way through the last deal he threw down his hand.
“Cards put me out,” he said. “I have twenty-seven.”
“If you’ve made a mistake,” Deacon threatened, his face white and drawn.
“Then I shall have lost. Count them.”
Grief passed over his stack of takings, and Deacon, with trembling fingers, verified the count. He half shoved his chair back from the table and emptied his glass. He looked about him at unsympathetic faces.
“I fancy I’ll be catching the next steamer for Sydney,” he said, and for the first time his speech was quiet and without bluster.
As Grief told them afterward: “Had he whined or raised a roar I wouldn’t have given him that last chance. As it was, he took his medicine like a man, and I had to do it.”
Deacon glanced at his watch, simulated a weary yawn, and started to rise.
“Wait,” Grief said. “Do you want further action?”
The other sank down in his chair, strove to speak, but could not, licked his dry lips, and nodded his head.
“Captain Donovan here sails at daylight in the Gunga for Karo-Karo,” Grief began with seeming irrelevance. “Karo-Karo is a ring of sand in the sea, with a few thousand cocoa-nut trees. Pandanus grows there, but they can’t grow sweet potatoes nor taro. There aremabout eight hundred natives, a king and two prime ministers, and the last three named are the only ones who wear any clothes. It’s a sort of God-forsaken little hole, and once a year I send a schooner up from Goboto. The drinking water is brackish, but old Tom Butler has survived on it for a dozen years. He’s the only white man there, and he has a boat’s crew of five Santa Cruz boys who would run away or kill him if they could. That is why they were sent there. They can’t run away. He is always supplied with the hard cases from the plantations. There are no missionaries. Two native Samoan teachers were clubbed to death on the beach when they landed several years ago.
“Naturally, you are wondering what it is all about. But have patience. As I have said, Captain Donovan sails on the annual trip to Karo-Karo at daylight to-morrow. Tom Butler is old, and getting quite helpless. I’ve tried to retire him to Australia, but he says he wants to remain and die on Karo-Karo, and he will in the next year or so. He’s a queer old codger. Now the time is due for me to send some white man up to take the work off his hands. I wonder how you’d like the job. You’d have to stay two years.
“Hold on! I’ve not finished. You’ve talked frequently of action this evening. There’s no action in betting away what you’ve never sweated for. The money you’ve lost to me was left you by your father or some other relative who did the sweating. But two years of work as trader on Karo-Karo would mean something. I’ll bet the ten thousand I’ve won from you against two years of your time. If you win, the money’s yours. If you lose, you take the job at Karo-Karo and sail at daylight. Now that’s what might be called real action. Will you play?”
Deacon could not speak. His throat lumped and he nodded his head as he reached for the cards.
“One thing more,” Grief said. “I can do even better. If you lose, two years of your time are mine—naturally without wages. Nevertheless, I’ll pay you wages. If your work is satisfactory, if you observe all instructions and rules, I’ll pay you five thousand pounds a year for two years. The money will be deposited with the company, to be paid to you, with interest, when the time expires. Is that all right?”
“Too much so,” Deacon stammered. “You are unfair to yourself. A trader only gets ten or fifteen pounds a month.”
“Put it down to action, then,” Grief said, with an air of dismissal. “And before we begin, I’ll jot down several of the rules. These you will repeat aloud every morning during the two years—if you lose. They are for the good of your soul. When you have repeated them aloud seven hundred and thirty Karo-Karo mornings I am confident they will be in your memory to stay. Lend me your pen, Mac. Now, let’s see——”
He wrote steadily and rapidly for some minutes, then proceeded to read the matter aloud:
“I must always remember that one man is as good as another, save and except when he thinks he is better.
“No matter how drunk I am I must not fail to be a gentleman. A gentleman is a man who is gentle. Note: It would be better not to get drunk.
“When I play a man’s game with men, I must play like a man.
“A good curse, rightly used and rarely, is an efficient thing. Too many curses spoil the cursing. Note: A curse cannot change a card seguence nor cause the wind to blow.
“There is no license for a man to be less than a man. Ten thousand pounds cannot purchase such a license.”
At the beginning of the reading Deacon’s face had gone white with anger. Then had arisen, from neck to forehead, a slow and terrible flush that deepened to the end of the reading.
“There, that will be all,” Grief said, as he folded the paper and tossed it to the centre of the table. “Are you still ready to play the game?”
“I deserve it,” Deacon muttered brokenly. “I’ve been an ass. Mr. Gee, before I know whether I win or lose, I want to apologize. Maybe it was the whiskey, I don’t know, but I’m an ass, a cad, a bounder—everything that’s rotten.”
He held out his hand, and the half-caste took it beamingly.
“I say, Grief,” he blurted out, “the boy’s all right. Call the whole thing off, and let’s forget it in a final nightcap.”
Grief showed signs of debating, but Deacon cried:
“No; I won’t permit it. I’m not a quitter. If it’s Karo-Karo, it’s Karo-Karo. There’s nothing more to it.”
“Right,” said Grief, as he began the shuffle. “If he’s the right stuff to go to Karo-Karo, Karo-Karo won’t do him any harm.”
The game was close and hard. Three times they divided the deck between them and “cards” was not scored. At the beginning of the fifth and last deal, Deacon needed three points to go out, and Grief needed four. “Cards” alone would put Deacon out, and he played for “cards”. He no longer muttered or cursed, and played his best game of the evening. Incidentally he gathered in the two black aces and the ace of hearts.
“I suppose you can name the four cards I hold,” he challenged, as the last of the deal was exhausted and he picked up his hand.
Grief nodded.
“Then name them.”
“The knave of spades, the deuce of spades, the tray of hearts, and the ace of diamonds,” Grief answered.
Those behind Deacon and looking at his hand made no sign. Yet the naming had been correct.
“I fancy you play casino better than I,” Deacon acknowledged. “I can name only three of yours, a knave,