Dragons Blood

Dragon's blood, by Henry Milner
Rideout

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Title: Dragon's blood
Author: Henry Milner Rideout
Release Date: November 27, 2003 [EBook #10321]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRAGON'S
BLOOD ***

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders

DRAGON'S BLOOD
by
HENRY MILNER RIDEOUT

with illustrations by HAROLD M. BRETT
1909

To CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND, 15 Hollis Hall, Cambridge,
Massachusetts
Dear Cope,
Mr. Peachey Carnehan, when he returned from Kafiristan, in bad shape
but with a king's head in a bag, exclaimed to the man in the newspaper
office, "And you've been sitting there ever since!" There is only a pig in
the following poke; and yet in giving you the string to cut and the bag
to open, I feel something of Peachey's wonder to think of you, across
all this distance and change, as still sitting in your great chair by the
green lamp, while past a dim background of books moves the
procession of youth. Many of us, growing older in various places,
remember well your friendship, and are glad that you are there, urging
our successors to look backward into good books, and forward into life.
Yours ever truly, H. M. R. Sausalito, California.
CONTENTS
I. A LADY AND A GRIFFIN II. THE PIED PIPER III. UNDER FIRE
IV. THE SWORD-PEN V. IN TOWN VI. THE PAGODA VII.
IPHIGENIA VIII. THE HOT NIGHT IX. PASSAGE AT ARMS X.
THREE PORTALS XI. WHITE LOTUS XII. THE WAR BOARD
XIII. THE SPARE MAN XIV. OFF DUTY XV. KAU FAI XVI. THE
GUNWALE XVII. LAMP OF HEAVEN XVIII. SIEGE XIX.
BROTHER MOLES XX. THE HAKKA BOAT XXI. THE
DRAGON'S SHADOW
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Good-by! A pleasant voyage" ... Frontispiece

Rudolph was aware of crowded bodies, of yellow faces grinning
He let the inverted cup dangle from his hands
He went leaping from sight over the crest
CHAPTER I
A LADY AND A GRIFFIN
It was "about first-drink time," as the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, bound
for Shanghai and Japan ports, observed to his friend Cesare Domenico,
a good British subject born at Malta. They sat on the coolest corner in
Port Said, their table commanding both the cross-way of Chareh Sultan
el Osman, and the short, glaring vista of desert dust and starved young
acacias which led to the black hulks of shipping in the Canal. From the
Bar la Poste came orchestral strains--"Ai nostri monti"--performed by a
piano indoors and two violins on the pavement. The sounds contended
with a thin, scattered strumming of cafe mandolins, the tinkle of glasses,
the steady click of dominoes and backgammon; then were drowned in
the harsh chatter of Arab coolies who, all grimed as black as Nubians,
and shouldering spear-headed shovels, tramped inland, their long tunics
stiff with coal-dust, like a band of chain-mailed Crusaders lately caught
in a hurricane of powdered charcoal. Athwart them, Parisian gowns
floated past on stout Italian forms; hulking third-class Australians, in
shirtsleeves, slouched along toward their mail-boat, hugging whiskey
bottles, baskets of oranges, baskets of dates; British soldiers, khaki-clad
for India, raced galloping donkeys through the crowded and dusty street.
It was mail-day, and gayety flowed among the tables, under the thin
acacias, on a high tide of Amer Picon.
Through the inky files of the coaling-coolies burst an alien and
bewildered figure. He passed unnoticed, except by the filthy little Arab
bootblacks who swarmed about him, trotting, capering, yelping
cheerfully: "Mista Ferguson!--polish, finish!--can-can--see nice
Frencha girl--Mista McKenzie, Scotcha fella from Dublin--smotta
picture--polish, finish!"--undertoned by a squabbling chorus. But
presently, studying his face, they cried in a loud voice, "Nix! Alles!"

and left him, as one not desiring polish.
"German, that chap," drawled the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, lazily,
noticing the uncertain military walk of the young man's clumsy legs,
his uncouth clothes, his pale visage winged by blushing ears of coral
pink.
"The Eitel's in, then," replied Cesare. And they let the young Teuton
vanish in the vision of mixed lives.
Down the lane of music and chatter and drink he passed slowly, like a
man just wakened,--assailed by Oriental noise and smells, jostled by
the races of all latitudes and longitudes, surrounded and solitary,
unheeded and self-conscious. With a villager's awkwardness among
crowds, he made his way to a German shipping-office.
"Dispatches for Rudolph Hackh?" he inquired, twisting up his blond
moustache, and trying to look insolent and peremptory, like an
employer of men.
"There are none, sir," answered an amiable clerk,