Dragons Blood | Page 6

Fliegelmans opened a hong in hell, you might possibly
get a worse station."
Without change of manner, he uttered a few gabbling, barbaric words.
A coolie knelt, and with a rag began to clean the boots, which, from the
expression of young Mr. Heywood's face, were more interesting than
the arrival of a new manager from Germany.
"It will be dark before we're in," he said. "My place for the night, of
course, and let your predecessor's leavings stand over till daylight.
After dinner we'll go to the club. Dinner! Chicken and rice, chicken and
rice! Better like it, though, for you'll eat nothing else, term of your life."
"You are very kind," began Rudolph; but this bewildering off-hand
youngster cut him short, with a laugh:--
"No fear, you'll pay me! Your firm supplies unlimited liquor. Much
good that ever did us, with old Zimmerman."
The sampan now slipped rapidly on the full flood, up a narrow channel

that the setting of the sun had turned, as at a blow, from copper to
indigo. The shores passed, more and more obscure against a fading
light. A star or two already shone faint in the lower spaces. A second
war-junk loomed above them, with a ruddy fire in the stern lighting a
glimpse of squat forms and yellow goblin faces.
"It is very curious," said Rudolph, trying polite conversation, "how they
paint so the eyes on their jonks."
"No eyes, no can see; no can see, no can walkee," chanted Heywood in
careless formula. "I say," he complained suddenly, "you're not going to
'study the people,' and all that rot? We're already fed up with
missionaries. Their cant, I mean; no allusion to cannibalism."
He lighted a cigarette. After the blinding flare of the match, night
seemed to have fallen instantaneously. As their boat crept on to the
slow creaking sweep, both maintained silence, Rudolph rebuked and
lonely, Heywood supine beneath a comfortable winking spark.
"What I mean is," drawled the hunter, "we need all the good fellows we
can get. Bring any new songs out? Oh, I forgot, you're a German,
too.--A sweet little colony! Gilly's the only gentleman in the whole
half-dozen of us, and Heaven knows he's not up to much.--Ah, we're in.
On our right, fellow sufferers, we see the blooming Village of Stinks."
He had risen in the gloom. Beyond his shadow a few feeble lights
burned low and scattered along the bank. Strange cries arose, the
bumping of sampans, the mournful caterwauling of a stringed
instrument.
"The native town's a bit above," he continued. "We herd together here
on the edge. No concession, no bund, nothing."
Their sampan grounded softly in malodorous ooze. Each mounting the
bare shoulders of a coolie, the two Europeans rode precariously to
shore.
"My boys will fetch your boxes," called Heywood. "Come on."

The path, sometimes marshy, sometimes hard-packed clay or stone
flags deeply littered, led them a winding course in the night. Now and
then shapes met them and pattered past in single file, furtive and
sinister. At last, where a wall loomed white, Heywood stopped, and,
kicking at a wooden gate, gave a sing-song cry. With rattling weights,
the door swung open, and closed behind them heavily. A kind of empty
garden, a bare little inclosure, shone dimly in the light that streamed
from a low, thick-set veranda at the farther end. Dogs flew at them,
barking outrageously.
"Down, Chang! Down, Chutney!" cried their master. "Be quiet,
Flounce, you fool!"
On the stone floor of the house, they leaped upon him, two red chows
and a fox-terrier bitch, knocking each other over in their joy.
"Olo she-dog he catchee plenty lats," piped a little Chinaman, who
shuffled out from a side-room where lamplight showed an office desk.
"Too-day catchee. Plenty lats. No can."
"My compradore, Ah Pat," said Heywood to Rudolph. "Ah Pat, my
friend he b'long number one Flickleman, boss man."
The withered little creature bobbed in his blue robe, grinning at the
introduction.
"You welly high-tone man," he murmured amiably. "Catchee goo'
plice."
"All the same, I don't half like it," was Heywood's comment later. He
had led his guest upstairs into a bare white-washed room, furnished in
wicker. Open windows admitted the damp sea breeze and a smell, like
foul gun-barrels, from the river marshes. "Where should all the rats be
coming from?" He frowned, meditating on what Rudolph thought a
trifle. Above the sallow brown face, his chestnut hair shone oddly,
close-cropped and vigorous. "Maskee, can't be helped.--O Boy, one
sherry-bitters, one bamboo!"

"To our better acquaintance," said Rudolph, as they raised their glasses.
"What? Oh, yes, thanks," the other laughed. "Any one would know you
for a griffin here, Mr. Hackh. You've not forgotten your manners yet."
When they had sat down to dinner in another