a while
back--after that paltry revolution. One didn't know. They are stupid,
these natives. Chewing betel nut all day, their mouths a red, bloody
gash across their faces.

The ship stopped finally in some bay. Then a big, unwieldy junk put
out from shore, and tacked back and forth, for two hours, against a
strong head wind, coming to rest finally against the steamer's side.
Two big iron rods were put out, with a padlock at each end, and places
for twenty-five feet to be locked in. Then came European guards, with
rifles, and revolvers in big leather cases hanging at their sides. The
prisoners were very docile, but it was well to take precautions. When
all was ready, the prisoners filed out slowly and with difficulty,
because of their chains, and descended the gangway ladder to the
uncouth junk, with its painted, staring eyes. After that, the junk
slowly detached itself from the ship, unrolled its ragged matting
sails, and made towards the mainland with the docile cargo.

The third passenger leaned over the rail. A sweet breeze blew in from
the island, a scented breeze, laden with the heavy scents of the
Tropics. For three years, he said, they would labour at the futile
roads, the roads that led nowhere. Really, commented the third
passenger, it was impossible to understand the Oriental mind. They had
chosen this--this isolation, this cutting off from home and friends,
rather then go to Europe to serve the race that had treated them so
well. Afraid? Oh, no--too ignorant to be afraid. Brave enough when it
came to that--just obstinate. Just refused to serve, to do as they
were told. Refused to serve, to fight for the race that had treated
them so well, by and large, take it all in all. That had built them
towns and harbours, brought in ships and trade--had done everything,
according to best western standards. It was incomprehensible--truly it
was difficult to fathom the Oriental mind! The revolt a year ago? Oh,
nothing!

The big junk with the staring eyes carried them off, the supine,
listless prisoners, handcuffed together, foot-locked to an iron bar.
They must build roads for three years. Somewhere at the back of those
slow minds was a memory of the race course, of the brothers they had
slain. Perhaps. Who knows. But the Occidental mind does not understand
the Oriental mind, and it was good to be rid of them, dirty little
creatures, who smelled so bad under the awning of the main deck.

The anchor chain wound in, g