The Devils Admiral | Page 3

to indicate his profession, black lettering on
his possessions advertised him as "The Rev. Luther Meeker, London

Evangelical Society." The multiplicity of labels proclaimed him a
traveller known from Colombo to Vladivostok, and he must have been
wandering over Asia for years, as his luggage was as ancient as
himself.
Fighting my way out of the multitude on the river-bank, I gained the
cable office near the customhouse and reported myself in Manila,
bought all the newspapers I could to learn how the war was going in
Manchuria, and to anticipate if possible where I might be ordered next.
I revelled in the noise and crowds as only one can after a week at sea.
While I was on the way from Saigon the Russian armies might have
been beaten or the Japanese fleet destroyed. There might be orders
sending me anywhere, but I hoped that I would leave Manila for the
Strait of Malacca to meet the Baltic fleet. What I feared most was the
end of the war, for a war-correspondent without a war is deprived of his
profession. I was young and ambitious, then, and seeking a journalistic
reputation at the cable's mouth.
It happened that I had allowed myself to heed the glib tongue of a
hotel-runner before I left the rice-steamer, and he had commandeered
my bag and taken it to the Oriente Hotel, of which I knew nothing
except that it was in the walled city and across the river from the cable
office. To recapture the bag and my clean linen I would have to take an
instrument of torture known as a carromatta and drive across the
Bridge of Spain.
I could cross the river in a small boat with a Filipino pirate, and go on a
hunt for a conveyance on the other side; but thought it better to risk
being shaken to death than drowned in the dirty Pasig, so I hailed a
cochero. The villain demanded a double rate, and, while we were
haggling, a bus of the Oriente drew in sight and I caught it as it was
spinning up Calle San Fernando.
When I crawled into the bus I wished that I had struck a bargain with
the thief of a cochero, for I found myself in a seat beside the whining
missionary. He prayed for his bones over the rough places, and for his
life, when the driver took a corner recklessly, and made us all very

weary with his eternal complaining. That was not the worst of it--he
tried to strike up an acquaintance with me.
There was a letter in my coat-pocket which had been given to me in
Saigon to deliver to the Russian consul in Manila. It was an errand for
the cable-operator there, who had done me favours, and I was to leave
it at the Hong-Kong-Shanghai Bank for the consul, who would call for
it. That bank carried an expense account for me, so the delivery of the
letter was of no trouble. The envelope was long and official-looking,
and it fell to the floor of the bus as I clambered in.
Meeker picked it up and handed it to me, but for the instant he held it
he read the address:
Russian Consul, Care Hong-Kong-Shanghai Bank, Manila Courtesy Mr.
James A. Trenholm, Amalgamated Press
"My dear sir," said Meeker, "you have dropped a document--allow
me."
"Thank you," I replied, and took the letter, which was quite bulky and
sealed with a splotch of black wax imprinted with a coat of arms or a
crest, or some such insignia. I fear I betrayed my irritation over
Meeker's reading the address.
"No offence, I trust, my dear sir," he said, mild surprise in his tone.
"None whatever," I snapped back; but our companions in the bus
smiled and winked at me openly, as if they appreciated my cold manner
toward the missionary.
He said no more to me, but remarked to no one in particular that "an
austere manner is a poor passport in this country," which implied that I
was new to the East, and would learn better if I stayed long enough. I
ignored the remark, somewhat pleased that I had rebuffed him, for I
well knew he would talk me into a fever if I did not keep him at a
distance; and, furthermore, I did not relish the idea of having him
intrude upon me at the hotel. My dislike for him was not because he

was a missionary, but because he was a common enough type of bore.
He was over suave, and his peevishness jarred my none too steady
nerves.
The bus was not a pleasant place for me after that, so I dropped off in
Plaza Moraga, when I observed the signboard of the very bank
mentioned.