It is a term of contempt. He might call his fellow so, but only as
an American negro says "nigger."

I looked at him closely. Some gesture, the suggested slant of his
brows, the thin lips, reminded me of a certain "son of Ah Cum" who
guided me into disaster in Canton, saying, "Mis'r Rud Kippeling he
go one time befo'."

"Your name?" I asked in hope of confirmation.

"O Lalala," he replied, while the smile that started in his eyes was
killed by his tightening lips. "I am French, for my grandfather was
of Annam under the tri-color, and my mother of Tahiti-iti."

Now fourteen-handed poker, with O Lalala as instructor to those
ignorant of the game, the code of which was written by a United
States diplomat, appealed to me as more than a passing of the time.
It would be an episode in the valley. My patriotism was stimulated.
I called the governor aside.

"This poker," I said, "is not like écarté or baccarat. It is a study
of character, a matching of minds, a thing we call bluff, we
Americans. These poor Marquesans must have some fun. Let him do it!
No harm can come of it. It is far to Paris, where the laws are made."

The governor turned to O Lalala.

"No stakes!" he said.

"_Mais, non!_ Not a _sou_!" the lame man promised. "We will use only