of the patrons could easily wake up old Judge Lynch.
But he had not the heart to be brusque with her. He could see the dumb adoration in her eyes; it would have required cold heartlessness to have repulsed her. Besides, there was nothing coy or provocative in her attitude; her manner was naive, almost childlike in its unsophistication. He recalled his determination to make friends; here was friendship offered, a dangerous friendship, but one which might prove useful in winning free.
He felt a momentary wave of shame that he should be weighing the potential usefulness of this defenseless child, but he suppressed it by affirming to himself that he would do her no harm, and, anyhow, there was the old saw about the vindictiveness of a woman scorned.
«Why, perhaps I did lose it,» he evaded, then added, «It's my favorite brand.»
«Is it?» she said happily. «Then do take it, in any case.»
«Thank you. Will you smoke one with me? No, I guess that wouldn't do; your father would not want you to stay here that long.»
«Oh, he's busy with his accounts. I saw that before I came out,» she answered, and seemed unaware that she had given away her pitiful little deception. «But go ahead, I – I hardly ever smoke.»
«Perhaps you prefer a meerschaum pipe, like your father.»
She laughed more than the poor witticism deserved. After that they talked aimlessly, both agreeing that the crop was coming in nicely, that the weather seemed a little cooler than last week, and that there was nothing like a little fresh air after supper.
«Do you ever walk for exercise after supper?» she asked.
He did not say that a long day in the swamps offered more than enough exercise, but agreed that he did.
«So do I,» she blurted out. «Lots of times up near the water tower.»
He looked at her. «Is that so? I'll remember that.» The signal for roll call gave him a welcome excuse to get away; three more minutes, he thought, and I would have had to make a date with her.
Wingate found himself called for swamp work the next day, the rush in the chopping sheds having abated. The crock lumbered and splashed its way around the long, meandering circuit, leaving one or more Earthmen at each supervision station. The car was down to four occupants, Wingate, Satchel, the Pusher, and Jimmie the Crocker, when the Pusher signalled for another stop. The flat, bright-eyed heads of amphibian natives broke water on three sides as soon as they were halted. «All right, Satchel,» ordered the Pusher, «this is your billet. Over the side.»
Satchel looked around. «Where's my skiff?» The ranchers used small flat-bottomed duralumin skiffs in which to collect their day's harvest. There was not one left in the crock.
«You won't need one. You goin' to clean this field for planting.»
«That's okay. Still – I don't see nobody around, and I don't see no solid ground.» The skiffs had a double purpose; if a man were working out of contact with other Earthmen and at some distance from safe dry ground, the skiff became his life boat. If the crocodile which was supposed to collect him broke down, or if for any other reason he had need to sit down or he down while on station, the skiff gave him a place to do so. The older clients told grim stories of men who had stood in eighteen inches of water for twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two hours, and then drowned horribly, out of their heads from sheer fatigue.
«There's dry ground right over there.» The Pusher waved his hand in the general direction of a clump of trees which lay perhaps a quarter of a mile away.
«Maybe so,» answered Satchel equably. «Let's go see.» He glanced at Jimmie, who turned to the Pusher for instructions.
«Damnation! Don't argue with me! Get over the side!»
«Not,» said Satchel, «until I've seen something better than two feet of slime to squat on in a pinch.»
The little water people had been following the argument with acute interest. They clucked and lisped in their own language; those who knew some pidgin English appeared to be giving newsy and undoubtedly distorted explanations of the events to their less sophisticated brethren. Fuming as he was, this seemed to add to the Pusher's anger.
«For the last time – get out there!»
«Well,» said Satchel, settling his gross frame more comfortably on the floorplates, «I'm glad we've finished with that subject.»
Wingate was behind the Pusher. This circumstance probably saved Satchel Hartley at least a scalp wound, for he caught the arm of the Pusher as he struck. Hartley closed in at once; the three wrestled for a few seconds on the bottom of the craft.
Hartley sat on the Pusher's chest while Wingate pried a blackjack away from the clenched fingers of the Pusher's right fist. «Glad you saw him reach for that, Hump,» Satchel acknowledged, «or I'd be needin' an aspirin about now.»
«Yeah, I guess so,» Wingate answered, and threw the weapon as far as he could out into the marshy waste. Several of the amphibians streaked after it and dived. «I guess you can let him up now.»
The Pusher said nothing to them as he brushed himself off, but he turned to the Crocker who had remained quietly in his saddle at the controls the whole time. «Why the hell didn't you help me?»
«I supposed you could take care of yourself, Boss,» Jimmie answered noncommittally.
Wingate and Hartley finished that work period as helpers to labor clients already stationed. The Pusher had completely ignored them except for curt orders necessary to station them. But while they were washing up for supper back at the compound they received word to report to the Big House.
When they were ushered into the Patron's office they found the Pusher already there with his employer and wearing a self-satisfied smirk while Van Huysen's expression was black indeed.
«What's this I hear about you two?» he burst out. «Refusing work. Jumping my foreman. By Joe, I'll show you a thing or two!»
«Just a moment, Patron van Huysen,» began Wingate quietly, suddenly at home in the atmosphere of a trial court, «no one refused duty. Hartley simply protested doing dangerous work without reasonable safeguards. As for the fracas, your foreman attacked us; we acted simply in self-defense, and desisted as soon as we had disarmed him.»
The Pusher leaned over Van Huysen and whispered in his ear. The Patron looked more angry than before. «You did this with natives watching. Natives! You know colonial law? I could send you to the mines for this.»
«No,» Wingate denied, «your foreman did it in the presence of natives. Our role was passive and defensive throughout – »
«You call jumping my foreman peaceful? Now you listen to me – Your job here is to work. My foreman's job is to tell you where and how to work. He's not such a dummy as to lose me my investment in a man. He judges what work is dangerous, not you.» The Pusher whispered again to his chief. Van Huysen shook his head. The other persisted, but the Patron cut him off with a gesture, and turned back to the two labor clients.
«See here – I give every dog one bite, but not two. For you, no supper tonight and no
«But Patron van Huys – »
«That's all. Get to your quarters.»
At lights out Wingate found, on crawling into his bunk, that someone had hidden therein a foodbar. He munched it gratefully in the dark and wondered who his friend could be. The food stayed the complaints of his stomach but was not sufficient, in the absence of
He had been nursing his troubles for perhaps an hour when he felt a hand touch his side. «Hump! Hump!» came a whisper, «come outside. Something's up.» It was Jimmie.
He felt his way cautiously through the stacks of bunks and slipped out the door after Jimmie. Satchel was already outside and with him a fourth figure.
It was Annek van Huysen. He wondered how she had been able to get into the locked compound. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying.
Jimmie started to speak at once, in cautious, low tones. «The kid tells us that I am scheduled to haul you two lugs back into Adonis tomorrow.»
