Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER VIII

  Foggy consciousness. A roaring like that of the ocean on a rockboundcoast. He seemed to be floating in a medium of ice. Once his draggingarm scraped a wet, slippery timber. The journey seemed to be takinghim down--down--into the earth, and slowly he began to rise.

  Gradually he became aware of innumerable pinpoints of light in a shieldof purple darkness. These might have been stars, or the lights of agreat city. Next he heard the low gurgle of water, as of a streamsplashing through wilderness.

  He felt very faint, but the vapor clouds in his brain were beginning toclear away. Next he was badly shaken up, yet he was conscious of nopain. Remorseful eyes stared into his from the face of a candle-whitespectre, and in the background a tall, half-naked giant swayed fromside to side in a pink glow.

  Where, then, were Jen and his Chinese?

  He vaguely sensed the dawn; it came to him as an old experience, a sortof groping memory out of a gloriously romantic past. And the swayinggiant he decided in a moment of rare clarity to be a sampan coolie.

  The pink glow increased, became pale yellow, while a deep bluenessfigured in it. A swollen sun came and paved a bloody path across alake of roiled brown, and the water hissed with a white foam.

  His jaws were aching; a queer emptiness in his chest caused him longand perplexing speculation. There were shouting voices aloft, and agleaming black wall slowly took form above him. He made out thepointed heads of rivets.

  "Are you awake?" The voice, low and sibilant, emerged from thecandle-white face.

  He had been dreaming, too, during this fantastic journey. Once he hadplainly distinguished a field of waving corn. He seemed to be back inCalifornia.

  "Eileen," he murmured, surprised at the feebleness of his voice.

  "No, no," came the reply. "It is Romola. I--I am leaving you!"

  "Ah! Where is Jen?"

  Bellowing inquiry came down to them: "Who is that? What do you want?"

  The girl called back: "The wireless operator. He is sick. Drop theladder. Send down some one to carry him."

  The sampan was swinging about, and the coolie was paddling like mad.

  "River boat--for Ching-Fu?" Peter gasped.

  "No. The _King of Asia_. Peter--can you understand? I am leavingyou! This is good-by! I--I--we will never see each other again. I--Icouldn't turn you over to that man!"

  "But the candle----" Peter was miserably confused. "You raisedit--once! I said no!"

  Romola seemed to become rather hysterical. "I tricked them, Peter!Oh, won't you understand? I do love you, Peter! I couldn't give youto them!"

  "No," he muttered; "I don't understand. I--I'm dizzy."

  The voice was bellowing again.

  "Is that Peter Moore? What's happened to him?"

  "He's sick--sick! Send down a watchman. Hurry! This tide is carryingus away!"

  Something bounded into the sampan. A brown coil was flattened againstthe gleaming black wall.

  But Peter could not understand. He was back again in the cellar underRomola's house, mumbling insanely about a candle-light. Perhaps hedreamed that hot lips were pressed lingeringly against his own. Overand over he heard a fading voice; it was saying: "Good-by!--_Ch'ing_!"

  The glaring sun was in his face. He shut his eyes. The lips seemed tobe torn from his in a cry of anguish. Strong arms encircled his waist,and he was no longer aware of the motion of the sampan.

  It was late in the day when Peter opened his eyes again, closed them,and stared at the mattress and springs of a bunk over his head. He waslying on his back in his stateroom. Smoky afternoon sunlight,reflected from a shimmering surface, sparkled and bubbled against thewhite enameled wall.

  His head was aching a little, and there were numerous jumping pains invarious parts of his body. He had been dreaming. All of these thingsthat had come and gone with the fading of the night were figments of aslumbering brain. The last portion of the dream which he couldvisualize distinctly was his act of arising from a wireless machine ina house that had gone mad, to confront a tall Chinese who wore aridiculously stubby pigtail, like that of Jen, the deck-steward.

  He sat up, governed by a sudden worry. Where were the Whipple girlsand Anthony? What had become of that dashing British lieutenant,Milton Raynard?

  Peter arose hastily from bed, and examined a pale and gaunt countenancein the small mirror above the wash-stand. Dark lines had come underhis eyes, and the deep-blue pupils seemed to kindle with a peculiarbrilliancy. He had seen that look in other eyes, and another fragmentof the dream came back to him. He licked his dry lips, tasting aflavor not unlike that of opium fresh from the poppy, and of almonds.

  He filled the wash-basin with cold water, took a long breath, andimmersed his face for a half minute. Gasping, he came out of it withpink starting into his cheeks, and his mental faculties somewhat betterorganized.

  When he emerged from his stateroom, attired in a fresh white uniform,with his gold-and-white cap set at a jaunty angle on his head, helooked like a different man. His skin was glowing, and a youthfulheart was sending recuperative tingles all over his body.

  Peter took a turn about the promenade deck in search of Anthony, andwas hailed by his room-boy, who had some mail for him.

  He dropped these missives absently into his pocket, made furtherinquiries, and learned that Anthony and the Misses Whipple had come tothe steamer shortly before sunrise in the launch belonging to the rivergunboat _Madrusa_.

  Then he knocked at Anthony's door. A tired snore, emanating from thetransom, broke into a sleepy complaint.

  The door opened; Anthony stared at him as if in the presence of aghost. "Great Scott! I thought you were dead!" He rubbed his eyes toaccelerate wakefulness.

  Peter chuckled. "What happened? Both girls safe?"

  "How did you get here alive?"

  "I came down by sampan. The princess detained me."

  Anthony shivered. "We thought you were with us. Somebody put out allthe lights!" He shivered again. "Raynard wanted to go back--so did I.We didn't dare! The girls, you know." He dropped his head, as ifashamed.

  "How is Peggy?"

  Anthony frowned, hesitated. "Peter, she--she thinks you're a quitter!She thinks you ran away at the big moment!"

  Peter grinned. "That can be cleared up. Did you enjoy--the game? Didyou succeed? That's all I'm worrying about."

  Anthony looked at him suspiciously. "That was not a put-up job.Why--I shot a man!" He became anxious. "Will there be a row?"

  "Not a bit--if you keep your mouth shut."

  "Oh, I'll do that! But that dead Chink! Ugh!"

  "Forget him," advised Peter cheerfully. "I still don't know what Peggyhad to say."

  "What do you mean?" Anthony gave him a blank stare.

  "Does she think----"

  A light of understanding came into Anthony's clear gray eyes. "Oh, Imade a little mistake," he confessed weakly. "It--it isn't Peggy; it'sHelen! We're engaged! You see, Helen is such a--a quiet and reservedsort of girl. Just my kind! Peggy--well, you know, I decided she wasa little too--too wild!"

  A long, low gray launch was chugging alongside when Peter made his wayback to the promenade-deck. At the upper extremity of thecompanion-ladder which reached down to the river's surface was standinga slim and youthful figure in blue, with wisps of golden hair flyingabout in the soft spring breeze.

  She leaned anxiously and expectantly over the rail as a tall andcommanding young man in the white uniform of his majesty's navalservice climbed up eagerly toward her. The young officer leapedgracefully over the rail, seized both hands of the girl, and his eyeswere shining.

  Peter's deep-blue eyes unaccountably took on an expression of moistsadness; yet he was grinning.

  He climbed up to the boat-deck, unlocked the wireless room, and for thefirst time recalled the mail in his hip-pocket. Leisurely he scannedthe post-cards first, highly colored ones, which had been forwardedfrom the San Francisco
Marconi office, emanating from friends scatteredin many parts of the world. One was from Alaska; another fromCalcutta, India, from that splendid fellow, Captain Bobbie MacLaurin.

  He opened the letter, and his eyes fell upon familiar handwriting. Hesuddenly felt shocked; the sentences began swimming. The letter wasfrom Eileen, dated Nanking. Words stood out whimsically, like thoughtsassailing a tired brain, clamoring for recognition.

  ... You are the stubbornest man! ... Do you imagine I ever cared forthat puppy? Why, Peter--why didn't you wait? I'd have scratched hiseyes out! Of course, he kissed me! But the point is, my dear, Ididn't realize until it was all over.... I suppose I should havejumped into the ocean when you left me so angrily. But I didn't. Icame to China on the _Empress of Japan_. I am now at the Bridge Hotel,in Nanking, on my way to Ching-Fu, where you may find me. Just to showyou that I can have adventures, too!

  "Great guns!" said Peter. He wondered if he could catch the Nankingexpress; there was a Chinese steamer leaving Nanking for up-riverto-morrow noon.

  There was a humble voice at his elbow. A deck-boy was grinningdreamily at him; a queer flicker darted across his green eyes, vanished.

  "Jen!" exclaimed Peter, glimpsing an abbreviated pigtail.

  "Aie!" said the deck-boy.

  "The man from the Jen Kee Road place!"

  The deck-steward seemed puzzled. "My no savvy," he said. His lookbecame dreamy again, reminiscent.

  "But you can speak English as well as 'pidgin,'" declared Peter,frowning. "You did last night!"

  "My savvy 'pidgin,'" said Jen brightly. "China allatime funny place!China no can savvy allatime funny people! Funny!"

  "What's that?" snapped Peter. He was baffled and angry. Had Jenplayed the leading part in the mysterious and grim comedy of lastnight, or was he only a work coolie, a deck-steward, harmless,innocuous, babbling happily in his limited knowledge of a strangelanguage?

  The deck-boy was pointing up-river with a long, yellow finger.

  Peter stared. And he saw nothing, nothing but a great red sun with itslower half enveloped in a glowing pool of green and red smoke intowhich arose the black spars of ships from all over the world.