Dragons Blood | Page 7

white-washed room, and
had undertaken the promised rice and chicken, he laughed again,
somewhat bitterly.
"Better acquaintance--no fear! You'll be so well acquainted with us all
that you'll wish you never clapped eyes on us." He drained his whiskey
and soda, signaled for more, and added: "Were you ever cooped up,
yachting, with a chap you detested? That's the feeling you come to
have.--Here, stand by. You're drinking nothing."
Rudolph protested. Politeness had so far conquered habit, that he felt
uncommonly flushed, genial, and giddy.
"That," urged Heywood, tapping the bottle, "that's our only amusement.
You'll see. One good thing we can get is the liquor. 'Nisi damnose
bibimus,'--forget how it runs: 'Drink hearty, or you'll die without
getting your revenge,'"
"You are then a university's-man?" cried Rudolph, with enthusiasm.
The other nodded gloomily. On the instant his face had fallen as
impassive as that of the Chinese boy who stood behind his chair,
straight, rigid, like a waxen image of Gravity in a blue gown.--"Yes, of
sorts. Young fool. Scrapes. Debt. Out to Orient. Same old story. More
debt. Trust the firm to encourage that! Debt and debt and debt. Tied up
safe. Transfer. Finish! Never go Home."--He rose with a laugh and an
impatient gesture.--"Come on. Might as well take in the club as to sit
here talking rot."
Outside the gate of the compound, coolies crouching round a lantern
sprang upright and whipped a pair of sedan-chairs into position.
Heywood, his feet elevated comfortably over the poles, swung in the
lead; Rudolph followed, bobbing in the springy rhythm of the long

bamboos. The lanterns danced before them down an open road, past a
few blank walls and dark buildings, and soon halted before a whitened
front, where light gleamed from the upper story.
"Mind the stairs," called Heywood. "Narrow and beastly dark."
As they stumbled up the steep flight, Rudolph heard the click of billiard
balls. A pair of hanging lamps lighted the room into which he rose,--a
low, gloomy loft, devoid of comfort. At the nearer table, a weazened
little man bent eagerly over a pictorial paper; at the farther, chalking
their cues, stood two players, one a sturdy Englishman with a gray
moustache, the other a lithe, graceful person, whose blue coat, smart as
an officer's, and swarthy but handsome face made him at a glance the
most striking figure in the room. A little Chinese imp in white, who
acted as marker, turned on the new-comers a face of preternatural
cunning.
"Mr. Wutzler," said Heywood. The weazened reader rose in a nervous
flutter, underwent his introduction to Rudolph with as much bashful
agony as a school-girl, mumbled a few words in German, and instantly
took refuge in his tattered Graphic. The players, however, advanced in
a more friendly fashion. The Englishman, whose name Rudolph did not
catch, shook his hand heartily.
"Mr. Hackh is a welcome addition." He spoke with deliberate courtesy.
Something in his voice, the tired look in his frank blue eyes and serious
face, at once engaged respect. "For our sakes," he continued, "we're
glad to see you here. I am sure Doctor Chantel will agree with me."
"Ah, indeed," said the man in military blue, with a courtier's bow. Both
air and accent were French. "Most welcome."
"Let's all have a drink," cried Heywood. Despite his many glasses at
dinner, he spoke with the alacrity of a new idea. "O Boy, whiskey
Ho-lan suey, fai di!"
Away bounded the boy marker like a tennis-ball.

"Hello, Wutzler's off already!"--The little old reader had quietly
disappeared, leaving them a vacant table.--"Isn't he weird?" laughed
Heywood, as they sat down. "Comes and goes like a ghost."
"It is his Chinese wife," declared Chantel, preening his moustache. "He
is always ashame to meet the new persons."
"Poor old chap," said Heywood. "I know--feels himself an outcast and
all that. Humph! With us! Quite unnecessary."--The Chinese page,
quick, solemn, and noiseless, glided round the table with his tray.--"Ah,
you young devil! You're another weird one, you atom. See those bead
eyes watching us, eh? A Gilpin Homer, you are, and some fine day
we'll see you go off in a flash of fire. If you don't poison us all
first.--Well, here's fortune!"
"Your health, Mr. Hackh," amended the other Englishman.
As they set down their glasses, a strange cry sounded from below,--a
stifled call, inarticulate, but in such a key of distress that all four faced
about, and listened intently.
"Kom down," called a hesitating voice, "kom down and look-see."
They sprang to the stairs, and clattered downward. Dim radiance
flooded the landing, from the street door. Outside, a smoky lantern on
the ground revealed the lower levels.
In the wide sector of light stood Wutzler, shrinking and apologetic, like
a man caught in a fault, his