“No,” said the colonel. He held out his hand. “Good-by. Nothing more to tell you, Mr. Gates.”
As they crossed the station platform Miss Dillaway touched his arm.
“What happened?” she asked. “What have they been doing to you, Gates? What have we gotten into?”
Calvin Gates looked grimly at the train and pressed his lips together. There was no need to tell her about that scene in the station, no need that she should be alarmed.
“Just passport trouble,” he said. “Just questions.”
Miss Dillaway laughed shortly.
“Well,” she said. “You didn’t think I was going to go on without you, did you? I came out to get you. I’m glad it’s only about a passport. I was afraid it was something else. If anything happens, I’m going to stop your being a hero, Gates.” And then her smile died away as she glanced up at him; his face was set and hard.
“I hope to heaven you can,” he said.
CHAPTER X
The sun moved with the hours of the afternoon in its arc across a warm blue sky where a few thin grayish clouds were floating. It moved deliberately with the hours until it was so low over the limitless rolling plain that the light became benign and soft and the horizon assumed a reddish hue that was reflected on the clouds, making them shell pink and purple. The waning light softened the harsh outlines and made the walled towns that they passed mysteriously remote in a sort of timeless loneliness and endowed the whole country with an exotic portentous beauty. The train moved through that level country as surely as though the hours were pulling it. The map showed him that they were nearing the venerable city of Shan-hai-kuan by the first gate in the great wall of China of which he had heard so much but knew so little. The motion of the train through that changing but changeless country was almost reassuring.
Miss Dillaway looked out the window, and her face made a sharp, incisive profile, as clear and even as the profile on a coin.
“I was born in Winnetka, Illinois,” Miss Dillaway said suddenly, and she was evidently speaking her thoughts aloud. “I went to Chicago University and then I went to art school. I started as a commercial artist. I had to earn my living. I’m not bad at accurate work. You’ve never had to earn your living, have you Gates?”
“What made you guess that?” Calvin asked her.
“Your attitude,” she answered. “You just look that way. It might have saved you trouble if you’d had to earn your living. It gets you in closer touch with facts.”
“I’ll have to earn my living from now on,” he said.
She leaned forward under some sudden impulse and rested her hand for a moment on his knee, and that momentary contact startled him.
“What’s the trouble at home?” she asked. “You’d better tell me, Gates.”
“I’d rather not,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”
It was no use. Whether he explained or not, in another day or two he would never see Miss Sylvia Dillaway again.
“All right,” said Miss Dillaway. “If you don’t want to talk, reach me down my sketching box, the big one on the rack there.”
She sat with her sketching box on the opposite seat, counting tubes of oil paint, arranging and rearranging all the tools of her trade as if she had forgotten his existence.
She was like others he had known who could retire suddenly behind the walls of their own interests, leaving him alone. She had asked for his confidence, but he was sure that it would have done no good to have talked about himself. It was better to try to live in the present and to examine the utter strangeness of that present. When he looked out of the window there was nothing in the scene which reminded him of anything, no face or voice in the train which reminded him of anything.
In one sense that unfamiliarity was a relief, but in another it was not. He had to walk dumbly through a world he did not know, coping with a language which he did not understand, while he waited for some event to occur that he could not anticipate. Thoughtlessly, he put his hand into the side pocket of his coat and for a second what he felt there surprised him. He had almost forgotten the automatic pistol, and he still had not the remotest idea why it had been given him. Nevertheless he was glad that he had it.
Every now and then the train boy moved past him, a young uniformed Japanese, and once or twice a member of the train guard paced slowly down the aisle. Since he had boarded the train again after his interview at that station, it seemed to him that he had acquired an added importance and that there was some unspoken sort of understanding.
“Please,” the train boy said slowly when it was growing dark, as though he had learned his words from a phrase book, “you get off train at Shan-hai-kuan and take sleeping train. Baggage goes to customs. Thank you please.”
The sun was down and the world was gray and then it was black, and the train moved for a long while through a dark country where there was hardly ever a gleam of light. It was after nine in the evening before the train reached Shan-hai-kuan. Even if he had not known that the wall was there, it was plain that they had passed from a land of order to a land of noise and confusion. Whistles were blowing. Porters and station employees and food vendors ran beside the train, shouting and waving their arms. The whole train shed was a babble of high voices and laughter and escaping steam. Calvin Gates stared uncertainly through the smoky window.
“It looks as though everyone outside has gone crazy,” he said.
Just as the train was coming to a stop and just as he had turned from the window, he saw a man of his own race thrust his way through the crowd and swing aboard. He had a glimpse of a red face and of a trench coat like his own, and then an instant later he saw the face again. A wiry, stocky European carrying a riding crop strode down the aisle toward them with a curious rolling gait. His face was ruddy from the out-of-doors, of a deep color that made his grayish eyes seem very light. He pushed past two Japanese businessmen who were starting for the door and caught sight of Calvin and Miss Dillaway.
“Hello, hello,” he called. His voice was nasal and metallic and he jerked off his felt hat. “Is this by any chance Miss Dillaway?”
“Yes, it is,” Miss Dillaway answered. “How do you know my name?”
She must have been as surprised as Calvin Gates to hear her name called in that remote place. The stranger’s hard red face crinkled into a smile and he pulled a letter from his pocket.
“That’s fine,” he said, “fine. So you’re the little artist lady, are you? Here’s a letter form Dr. Gilbreth explaining who I am. Read it any time. My name is Hamby, miss, Captain Sam Hamby, Dardanelles, Messines Ridge. Long time ago wasn’t it? Professional soldier, miss, with the Cavalry of the Prince of Ghuru Nor. I was coming down from up there on business and Dr. Gilbreth asked me to pop over here and meet you. He thought it might be easier for you. There’s a spot of mix-up over in Mongolia. Don’t worry, things are always mixed up in China.”
Miss Dillaway read the note which he handed her and gave the red-faced stranger a smile of quick relief.
“Well,” she said, “that explains everything. It’s awfully kind of you, Captain Hamby, and I won’t say two greenhorns like us don’t need help. This is Mr. Gates, who is going up there with me, Mr. Calvin Gates from New York.”
The wrinkles around Captain Hamby’s lips grew deeper, and though he smiled his face grew watchful, and his eyes looked still and glassy. They reminded Calvin of the eyes of a sailor or a hunter that were accustomed to stare across great distances.
“Well, well,” said Captain Hamby, “funny that Gilbreth never spoke of you. The word was that only Miss Dillaway was traveling up to Ghuru Nor.”
There was something in the other’s face that Calvin did not like, although he could not tell just why—something still and something watchful. His curiosity, though it was natural, aroused in Calvin a sudden resentment. Through the thoughtfulness of Dr. Gilbreth, Captain Hamby had come to take Miss Dillaway from him; and he had not wanted it just yet. It gave him a strange, unreasoning pang of j
ealousy which increased when he saw that Miss Dillaway looked happy and relieved.
“Dr. Gilbreth doesn’t know I’m coming,” Calvin said; “but I’m an old acquaintance of his. I can assure you that he won’t object. I’ve come all the way from New York on a piece of business with him.”
For a second Captain Hamby’s eyes maintained that curious, glassy look, and then they twinkled and his smile grew broader.
“That’s fine,” said Captain Hamby, “fine. Any friend of Gilbreth’s a friend of mine. Capital chap, the Doctor. The more the merrier, Gates. Just leave everything to me. By jove, that’s awkward,” Captain Hamby paused and thrust his hands in his coat pockets, “I must have left my fags in my old kit bag and I’m perishing for a smoke. Neither of you two have a cigarette, have you?”
The question was casual enough, but there was nothing casual about Captain Hamby’s light gray eyes. In the instant’s hesitation that followed Calvin saw Miss Dillaway steal a sideways glance at him.
“You have a cigarette, haven’t you, Gates?” she said.
Calvin produced a paper package from his pocket. A little line appeared between Captain Hamby’s light eyebrows and disappeared again.
“Thanks,” he said, “awfully. Deuced careless of me to forget my fags. Now you leave everything to me, I know the ropes here. I’ve got boys to handle the bags. We’ll get through the customs before you can say knife. I’ll get three compartments—Chinese sleeping train. Right? Not as good as a wagon-lit, but it’s clean. Just leave everything to me.”
Captain Hamby waved his hand toward the rear of the train in a broad, expansive gesture.
“Back there in Manchukuo—just you understand this,—” his red face wrinkled in a pantomime—“everything is dead serious; but over here—” the wrinkles curved into an exaggerated grin—“over here everything is funny, always something funny in China. I ought to know. I’ve been here long enough. Just remember to keep smiling—smile, smile, smile.”
Although the hard nasal voice and the pronunciation puzzled Calvin, he was beginning to comprehend that Captain Hamby was a part of that new country and as much in keeping with it as the native population. Captain Hamby was a type which Calvin had heard casually mentioned, but one which he had never seen—the Old China Hand. The analysis of Miss Dillaway went even further.
“Australian, aren’t you, Captain Hamby?” she asked.
“You win, Miss Dillaway,” Captain Hamby said. “Been around a bit, haven’t you, to pick me out so easy? Just a noisy Aussie, and that’s about the same as American, isn’t it? We better pop off the train now. Just leave everything to me.”
Captain Hamby jerked a window open with a quick heave of his broad shoulders and began shouting directions to the station platform in a curious mixture of English and Chinese.
“Here come the boys,” he said. “The bags will be out in a minute. All you have to do is get on the other train and wait. I’ll take you.”
“We’re certainly glad to see you,” said Miss Dillaway.
“Righto,” said Captain Hamby.
Two minutes later they were moving across the train shed with Captain Hamby just beside them, leading a line of four porters carrying their luggage. They were with a man who knew the ropes and who knew how to arrange everything in a way that was breezy and bullying and yet good-natured.
“Just jolly the Chinese,” Captain Hamby said. “Every Chinese is a perfect gentleman. Over there—very grim; over here—comic opera.”
With Captain Hamby no great effort seemed necessary. He exchanged a few sharp sentences with the Chinese Customs and then, before Calvin could even understand what formality had taken place, they were in three compartments of the Peiping train with all their baggage identified and stowed away. Captain Hamby pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, grinned and mopped his brow.
“Everything’s shipshape now, eh what?” he said. “Miss Dillaway bunks there, you next, Gates, and me right beside you. I’ll leave our connecting door open, Gates. And now how about a drink? Always travel with whisky in China if you know what’s good for you. I’ll get the boy.” He opened the door and hurried into the narrow passageway outside. “Boy,” Calvin could hear him shouting, “boy!”
Miss Dillaway looked after him smilingly.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” she said.
“He’s been a help,” said Calvin Gates, but her remark gave him another twinge of jealous resentment. Miss Dillaway wrinkled her nose.
“He was a help,” she said, “and a lot of help you’d have been. Don’t be such a snob, Gates.”
“I’m not a snob,” said Calvin. “I just wonder why he asked for a cigarette.”
“Why shouldn’t he ask for a cigarette?” she inquired.
“No reason,” Calvin answered, “but he might have had some of his own.”
Captain Hamby was back with the train boy before she had time to reply. The Captain was carrying a bottle of English whisky and the train boy followed with a tray and glasses and soda.
“You can get anything you like if you know how to get it,” Captain Hamby said. “Soda, Miss Dillaway? I’ll take mine neat. Chin chin!”
“Chin chin,” said Miss Dillaway. They sat side by side on Calvin Gates’s bunk, with the glasses on a wooden hinged table in front of them. The sleeping compartment was of plain, varnished wood with a single dim yellow electric bulb, but, as Captain Hamby had said, it was reasonably clean. There was a sliding glass paneled door which communicated with the passageway outside. Other passengers stared through the panel curiously and Captain Hamby pulled the shade.
“You’ll get used to that,” he said. “White people are a traveling circus to the Chinese. They still think our knees bend backward upcountry and that we eat babies’ eyes, but they’re all right, always ready for a laugh. Just pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, boys, that’s the style. What’s the use of worrying? It never was worth while.”
“Did you say there was some trouble up where you came from?” Calvin asked.
The Captain laughed and reached for the whisky bottle.
“There’s a lot of talk going around in China, always talk,” he said.
“What sort of talk?” asked Calvin Gates.
The Captain reached for one of Calvin’s cigarettes and spoke with it dangling from his lips, so that its glowing end moved jerkily with his words.
“Out here,” said Captain Hamby, “you’ll find out there’s always trouble. There’s either some war lord in the provinces, or a disbanded army running wild, or the Japanese. This time it looks like the Japanese. They’re setting out to start something. Out our way it’s hard to get through the wall.”
“What wall?” Calvin asked him.
The Captain’s light gray eyes met his with a calculating glance.
“Seems as though you’re new here,” the Captain said. “I’m referring to the real wall of China built before Christ. It isn’t much more than a mound now but there’s a gate in it outside of Kalgan, and then there comes Mongolia. It’s hard to get through now. That’s why Gilbreth sent me.”
“Oh,” said Calvin Gates, “I see. You mean the Japanese?”
Captain Hamby nodded and finished his drink.
“You can’t be sure,” he said and lowered his voice. “It looks as though they’re pushing in again. First it was Manchuria and then it was Jehol, and then influence over Peiping. It looks like all North China this time. Another incident—of course you can never be sure. I’ve seen enough of this never to be sure. Someone might start shooting. Anyway, up where I live things aren’t going right. Maybe I don’t make myself clear.”
Captain Hamby took off his felt hat and it changed him. His dark brown hair was very closely clipped and growing gray at the temples, but he looked neither young nor old. The wrinkles in his forehead and the crow’s-feet about his eyes were made by wind and dust rather than by age.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I talk Chinese and Russian and Mongolian so much th
at I don’t make myself clear in English. I come from Ghuru Nor. I’m commanding the Prince’s Cavalry. The Prince is up-to-date, Prince Wu Fang at Ghuru Nor—that’s his Chinese name. He’s not bad, the Prince. It’s a way to earn your living. Soldier of fortune—Captain Sam Hamby. Served under the Christian General and under the old marshal and the young marshal. Who wants another drink?”
Captain Hamby stared ahead of him at nothing. A whistle blew and the train had begun to move. Captain Hamby had spoken, he had explained himself perfectly, and his hard-bitten face and wiry body confirmed his speech. Miss Dillaway was looking at him with a respect that was annoying.
“You must have seen a lot,” Miss Dillaway said.
“Beg pardon?” said Captain Hamby, and his glance traveled toward her out of nowhere. “Oh yes, a lot, and it’s nice to see an English-speaking girl again. We’re going to get on fine, Miss Dillaway. Well, we’re off. I’m here to get you up to Ghuru Nor just as fast as we can go. No delaying, or the line to Kalgan may be cut. Old man Holtz will take us out from Kalgan.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Miss Dillaway.
The Captain blinked his pale gray eyes and continued to watch Miss Dillaway.
“Gilbreth was worried about you,” he said. “The Prince received him and is interested. His Highness is an educated man. I was going down here at any rate on business for the Prince—purchases—firearms. Gilbreth is twenty miles away from the palace, digging in a hill—funny business, digging.”
“The palace,” said Miss Dillaway. “Is there a palace?”
“You’ll see it,” the Captain answered. “A real palace with white and orange yurts in front and courtyards and red and yellow lama priests and attendants with peacock plumes. You can paint some pretty pictures there. Yes, it’s quite a palace, like the days of Ghengis Khan.”
Captain Hamby paused again, but it seemed to Calvin that his nasal unmusical voice still echoed above the rumbling of the train. He was not showing off now that he had spoken about himself. He had spoken and something of his past was with them on the train, turbulent and restive. Hearing, one could not help but wonder what had brought him there, but there was no doubt that everything he said was true.
Mr. Moto Is So Sorry Page 8
