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The Chinaman replied in his idea of English: "Allee lightee, dockee, him wellee happy now allee samee 'Melican man angel." Loo Foo had been converted, it was said, when he carried on the business of washee-washee in a mining-camp, for, as he had expressed it: "More lovee 'Melican man Joss, gettee more washee."
Once, when the ketch, swerved by some vagrant current, came close to the break of the shore-surf, the blacks on board drew toward one another in apprehension akin to that of startled sheep in a fold when a wild woods marauder howls outside. Nor was there any need for Van Horn's shout to the whaleboat: "Washee-washee! Damn your hides!"
Stick it out, old man. Stay with it. Washee-washee like hell! Here we are, Jerry. Stay with it. Hang on, old boy, we'll get you. Easy . . . easy. 'Vast washee."
The handsome clubroom of the Black Bear Patrol, Boy Scouts of America, in the City of New York, was ablaze with light, and as noisy as healthy, happy boys could well make it. "Over in the Chinese Sea!" shouted Jimmie McGraw from a table which stood by an open window overlooking the brilliantly illuminated city. "Do we go to the washee-washee land this time?" "Only to the tub!"
Clean up the decks and bend the watch tackle on the main boom." He took the steering-sweep and encouraged the rowers with: "Washee-washee, good fella, washee-washee!" which is the beche-de-mer for "row hard." As he steered, he kept flashing the torch on the boat compass so that he could keep headed north-east by east a quarter east.
Skipper was truly a god, his god, with a god's power to save. Soon he heard the rhythmic clack of the oars on the thole-pins, and the joy in his own yelp was duplicated by the joy in Skipper's voice, which kept up a running encouragement, broken by objurgations to the rowers. "All right, Jerry, old man. All right, Jerry. All right. Washee-washee, you fella boy! Coming, Jerry, coming.
"Washee-washee quick fella," he commanded. The ancient obediently dipped his paddle and started pottering an erratic course in the general direction of the cluster of lights that marked the Makambo. But he was too feeble, panting and wheezing continually from the exertion and pausing to rest off strokes between strokes. The steward impatiently took the paddle away from him and bent to the work.
Then he dropped the hot cup on the ground and began to dance up and down, shaking his blistered hand as he did so. "I got it!" he said. "There was only one hot cup in the lot, an' I got it! Say, Ned, what do you know about them callers you're goin' to have? Look like busted washee-washee geeks from Pell street. Look at 'em!"
"Washee-washee!" Van Horn cried with imperative suddenness. The paddlers, without command from chief or dandy, involuntarily obeyed, and with deep, strong strokes sent the canoe into the encircling darkness. Just as quickly Van Horn changed his position on deck to the tune of a dozen yards, so that no hazarded bullet might reach him.
Under water he struck out, nor did he come up till he saw the canoe and the bubbling paddles overhead. As he climbed aboard, the Wlli-Waw went into the wind to come about. "Washee-washee!" Grief cried to his boys. "You fella make-um beach quick fella time!" In all shamelessness, he turned his back on the battle and ran for cover.
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