But them two _hapahaole_ kids o' yourn, Gib. Just
think of it. Banged an' ragged around between decks, neither
black nor white--too good for the natives an' not good enough for
the whites. Princes on their mother's side, they been robbed o'
their hereditary rights by a gang o' native roughnecks, while
their own father loafs alongshore in San Francisco an' enjoys
himself."
"Looky here, Scraggs," Mr. McGuffey struck in ominously. "Ain't
you said about enough? Don't hit a feller when he's down."
"Well, he ain't down so low that he can't climb back. If he's got
a spark o' manhood left in him he'll never rest until he goes
back to Aranuka, looks up them progeny o' his, an' does his best
to make amends for the past. Gib, you can't work for me aboard
the _Maggie_--not if the old girl couldn't turn her screw until
you stepped aboard. Pers'nally you got a lot o' fine p'ints an'
I like you, but now that I know your past----"
He threw out his hands despairingly. "It's your morals, Gib, it's
your blasted morals."
"You're right, Scraggs," Mr. Gibney mumbled brokenly. "It's my
duty to go look up them poor children o' mine. Bart, you stick by
old Scraggsy.
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