Wang was not a common coolie. He had been a servant to white men before.
The agreement between him and Heyst consisted in the exchange of a few
words on the day when the last batch of the mine coolies was leaving
Samburan. Heyst, leaning over the balustrade of the veranda, was looking
on, as calm in appearance as though he had never departed from the
doctrine that this world, for the wise, is nothing but an amusing
spectacle. Wang came round the house, and standing below, raised up his
yellow, thin face.
"All finished?" he asked. Heyst nodded slightly from above, glancing
towards the jetty. A crowd of blue-clad figures with yellow faces and
calves was being hustled down into the boats of the chartered steamer
lying well out, like a painted ship on a painted sea; painted in crude
colours, without shadows, without feeling, with brutal precision.
"You had better hurry up if you don't want to be left behind."
But the Chinaman did not move.
"We stop," he declared. Heyst looked down at him for the first time.
"You want to stop here?"
"Yes."
"What were you? What was your work here?"
"Mess-loom boy."
"Do you want to stay with me here as my boy?" inquired Heyst, surprised.
The Chinaman unexpectedly put on a deprecatory expression, and said,
after a marked pause:
"Can do."
"You needn't," said Heyst, "unless you like.
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