CHAPTER II

The coolie plunged into the water with a weltering splash which sent a

small spiral of spray almost to the deck. For a moment the man in the

water pedaled and flailed, vastly frightened, and gasping, above the

clang of the engine-room telegraph, for a rope. The black side of the

_Persian Gulf_ started to slide away from him.

"You better make for shore!" shouted Peter between megaphonic hands.

Several boatmen were poling in the coolie's direction, but all of them

refrained from slipping within reach of the thrashing hands. A

Javanese boatman can find more amusing and enjoyable scenes than an

angry Chinese coolie flailing about in the water; but he must travel

many miles to find them.

"Swim to the _ma-fou_," Peter encouraged him. He knew there were

sharks in that emerald pond.

His attention then was diverted by a flutter of white at his elbow. He

turned his head. The lonely passenger, a girl, was smiling

mischievously into his face. But in her very dark eyes there was a

blunt question.

"Why did you do that?" she asked in a voice that rang with a low

musical quality. Her voice and her beauty were of the tropics, as were

the features which, molded together, gave form to that beauty; because

her hair and eyes were of a color, dark like walnut, and her olive skin

was like silk under silk, with the rosy color of her youth and fire

showing underneath.

She was rather startling, especially her deep, dark and restless eyes.

It was by sense rather than by anything his eyes could base conclusions

upon that Peter realized her spirited personality, knew instinctively

that radiant and destructive fires burned behind the sombre,

questioning eyes. The full, red lips might have told him this much.

And now these lips were forming a smile in which was a little humor and

a great deal of tenderness.

Why there should be any element of tenderness in the stranger's smile

was a point that Peter was not prepared to analyze. He had been

subjected to the tender smiles of women, alas! on more than one

occasion; and it was part of Peter's nature to take these gifts

unquestioningly. He was not one to look a gift smile in the mouth!

Yet, if Peter had looked back upon his experience, he would have

admitted that such a smile was slightly premature, that it smacked of

sweet mystery.

And it is whispered that richly clad young women do not ordinarily

smile with tenderness upon young ruffians who throw apparently peaceful

citizens from the decks of steamers into waters guarded by sharks.

To carry this argument a step farther, it has always seemed an unfair

dispensation of nature that women should fall in love so desperately,

so suddenly, so unapologetically and in such numbers with Peter the

Brazen.

The phenomenon cannot be explained in a breath, or in a paragraph, if

at all. While he was good to look upon, neither was Peter a god.

While he was at all times chivalrous, yet he was not painstakingly

thoughtful in the small matters which are supposed to advance the cause

of love at a high pace. Nor was he guided by a set of fixed rules such

as men are wont to employ at roulette and upon women.

Peter did not understand women, yet he had a perfectly good working

basis, for he took all of them seriously, with gravity, and he gave

their opinions a willing ear and considerable deference.

The rest is a mystery. Peter was neither particularly glib nor witty.

Instinctively he knew the values of the full moon, the stars, and he

had the look of a young man who has drunk at the fountain of life on

more than one occasion, finding the waters thereof bitter, with a trace

of sweetness and a decided tinge of novelty.

Life was simply a great big adventure to Peter the Brazen; and he had

been shot, stabbed, and beaten into insensibility on many occasions,

and he was not unwilling for more. He dearly loved a dark mystery, and

he had a certain reluctant fondness for a woman's bright, deceptive

eyes.

As from a great distance he heard the jeers of the Javanese boatmen and

the flounderings of the coolie as he looked now into the dark, deep

eyes of this pretty, smiling stranger.

"Why did you do that?" she repeated softly.

"Because I wanted to," returned Peter with his winning smile.

"But there are sharks in there." This in a voice of gentle reproof.

"I hope they eat him alive," said Peter, unabashed.

"You threw him overboard just because you wanted to. And if you want

to, I'll go next, I suppose."

"You might," laughed Peter. "When I have these spells I simply grab

the nearest person and over he goes. It is a terrible habit, isn't it?"

"Perhaps he insulted you."

"Or threatened me."

"Ah!" Her sigh expressed that she understood everything. "May I ask:

Who are you?"

"I? Peter Moore."

"I mean, your uniform. You are one of the ship's officers, are you

not?"

"The wireless operator. Shall we consider ourselves properly

introduced?"

"My name is Romola Borria. I presume you are an American--or British."

"American," informed Peter. "And you? Spanish _señorita_?"

"I have no nationality," she replied easily. "I am what we call in

China, a 'B. I. C.'"

"Born in China!"

"Born in Canton, China. Father: Portuguese; mother: Australian.

Answer: What am I?" She laughed deliciously, and Peter was moved.

They lingered long enough to see the coolie drag himself up on the

shore unassisted, and then separated, the girl to make ready for lunch

and to request the steward to assign them to adjoining seats at the

same table, and Peter to take a look at the register, the crew, and

what passengers might be on deck.

The passengers, lounging in steamer-chairs awaiting the call to tiffin,

and the deck crew, strapping down the forward cargo booms and battening

the forward hatch, Peter gave a careful inspection, retaining their

images in an eye that was rapidly being trained along photographic

lines.

It was a comparatively simple matter, Peter found, to remember peoples'

faces; the important point being to select some striking feature of the

countenance, and then persistently drive this feature home in his

memory. He knew that the human memory is a perverse organ, much

preferring to forget and lose than to retain.

So he looked over the crew and found them to be quite Dutch and quite

self-satisfied, with no more than a slight but polite interest in him

and his presence. Wireless operators, as a rule, are self-effacing

individuals who inhabit dark cabins and have very little to say.

He called at the purser's office and helped himself to the register,

finding the name of Romola Borria in full, impulsive handwriting,

giving her address as Hong Kong, Victoria; and a long list of Dutch

names, representing quite likely nothing more harmful than sugar and

coffee men, with perhaps a sprinkling of copra and pearl buyers.

Peter then investigated the wireless cabin, which was situated aft on

the turn of the promenade deck, and commanding a not entirely inspiring

view of the cargo well and the steerage.

Assuring himself that the wireless machine was in good working order,

Peter hooked back the door, turned on the electric fan to air the place

out, and with his elbows on the rail gave the steerage passengers a

looking over.

He did not look far before his gaze stopped its traveling.

Directly below him, sitting cross-legged on a hatch-cover, was a

Chinese or Eurasian girl whose face was colorless, whose lips were red,

and whose eyes, half-lidded, because of the dazzling sunlight, were of

an unusual blue-green shade.

Had Peter wished to make inquiries regarding this maiden, he would have

found that she was from the Chinese settlement in Macassar, and on her

way to Canton, to pay a visit to a grandmother she had never seen. But

it was Peter's nature to spin little dreams of his own whenever he

contemplated exotic young women, to place them in settings of his own

manufacture.

Her blue-black hair was parted in a white line that might have been

centered by the tip of her tiny nose and an unseen point on the nape of

her pretty neck.

Peter could not know, as he studied her, how this innocent maid from

Macassar was destined to play an important and significant part in his

life, entering and leaving it like a gentle and caressing afternoon

monsoon. His guess, as he looked away, was that she was a woman of no

caste, from her garb; probably a river girl; more than likely, worse.

Yet there was an undeniable air of innocence and youth in her narrow

shoulders as she slowly rocked. Peter could see the tips of bright-red

sandals peeping from under each knee, and he guessed her to be about

eighteen.

She caught sight of Peter, who had folded his arms and was resting

their elbows idly upon the teak rail, and their eyes met and lingered.

A light, indescribably sad and appealing, shone in the blue-green eyes,

which seemed to open larger and larger, until they became round pools

of darting, mysterious reflection. It was a moment in which Peter was

suspended in space.

"I am afraid that wireless operators are not always discreet," purred a

low, sweet voice at his side.

Peter smiled his grave smile, and vouchsafed nothing. The girl in the

steerage had returned to her sewing and was apparently quite oblivious

of his presence. And still that look of demure, wistful appeal stood

out in his memory.

Romola Borria was murmuring something, the context of which was not

quite clear to him.

"Eh? I beg pardon?"

"It is quite dreadful, this traveling all alone," she remarked.

"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes I bore myself into a state of agony."

"And it breeds such strange, such unexplainable desires and caprices,"

the girl went on in her cultivated, honeyed tones. "Strangers

sometimes are so--so cold. For instance, yourself."

"I?" exclaimed Peter, supporting himself on the stanchion. "Why, I'm

the friendliest man in the world!"

Romola Borria pursed her lips and studied him analytically.

"I wonder----" she began, and stopped, fretting her lip. "I should

like to ask you a very blunt and a very bold question." Her expression

was darkly puzzled.

"Go right ahead," urged Peter amiably, "don't mind me."

"Why I speak in this way," she explained, "is that since I ran away

from Hong Kong----"

"Oh, you ran away from Hong Kong!"

"Of course!" She said it in a way that indicated a certain lack of

understanding on his part. "Since I ran away from Hong Kong I have

been looking, looking for such--for such a man as you appear to be,

to--to confide in."

"Don't you suppose a woman would do almost as well?" spoke Peter, who,

through experience, had grown to dislike the father-confessor role.

"If you don't _care_ to listen----" she began, as though he had hurt

her.

"I am all ears," stated Peter, with his most convincing smile.

"And I have changed my mind," said Romola Borria with a disdainful toss

of her pretty head. "Besides, I think the Herr Captain would have a

word with you."

The fat and happy captain of the _Persian Gulf_ occupied the breadth if

not the height of the doorway, wearing his boyish grin, and Peter

hastened to his side with a murmured apology to the girl as he left her.

He merely desired to have transmitted an unimportant clearance message

to the Batavia office, to state that all was well and that the

thrust-bearing, repaired, was now performing "smoot'ly."

Dropping the hard rubber head-phones over his ears, Peter listened to

the air, and in a moment the silver crash of the white spark came from

the doorway.

Romola Borria stared long and venomously at the little Chinese maiden,

who was sewing away industriously as she rocked to and fro on the

hatch. Immersed in her own thoughts the girl, removing her quick eyes

from the flying needle, glanced up at the deep-blue sky, and, smiling,

shivered in a sort of ecstasy.