CHAPTER X

At a small round table in the end of the room over which hung the

orchestra balcony, Peter found himself in the presence of two disarming

gray eyes, which drank in every detail of his good-looking young face,

including the penciled eyebrows.

Miss Vost--Miss Amy Vost--gave him to understand that she was really

grateful for his hospitality, rushed on to assure him that it was not

customary for her to meet strange young men as she had met him, and

then frankly asked him what he was doing in China. Every time she

thought of him her curiosity seemed to trip over the Japanese kimono.

Influenced by his third glass of Japanese champagne, he almost told her

the truth. He modified it by saying that he was a wireless operator;

that he had missed his ship, and that his plans were to linger in China

for a while. He liked China. Liked China very much.

Miss Vost caressed the tip of her nose with a small, pink thumb. She

was not the kind who hesitated.

"You can do me a favor," she said, and halted.

The Philippine orchestra burst into a lilting one-step. Miss Vost

arched her eyebrows. Peter arose, and they glided off. It developed

that Miss Vost was well qualified. There was divineness in her

youthful grace; she put her heart into the dance. It seemed probable

to Peter Moore that she put her heart into everything she did.

"You spoke about my doing a favor," he suggested, glancing sternly at a

dark-eyed Eurasian girl who seemed to be trying to divert his attention.

"There is a man in Shanghai I want you to try to find for me--to-night.

Last time I saw him--this morning--he was drunk. He was the first

officer on the steamer that brought me up from Amoy. Perhaps you know

him. He's only been on the coast a short while. Before that he ran on

the Pacific Mail Line between San Francisco and Panama. His name is

MacLaurin, a nice boy. Scotch. But he drinks."

"MacLaurin? I know a man named MacLaurin--Bobbie MacLaurin."

"No!" gasped Miss Vost. "I suppose I ought to make that old remark

about what a small world it is! Do you know where Bobbie MacLaurin is?"

"No," he murmured. "Why is he drunk?"

"That is a matter," replied Miss Vost, somewhat distantly, "that I

prefer not to discuss. Will you try to find him for me? He threatened

to be--be captain of the river-boat, the _Hankow_, that I leave on

to-morrow for Ching-Fu. I'd rather like to know if he intends to carry

out his threat. Will you find out, if you can, if he is going to be

sober enough to make the trip--and let me know?" requested Miss Vost,

as the music stopped. "I'd rather he wouldn't, Mr. Moore," she added

quickly. "But I do wish _you_ were going to make the trip. I'd love

to have you!"

The ex-operator of the _Vandalia_ experienced a warm suffusion in the

vicinity of his throat. In the next breath he felt genuinely guilty.

As he looked deep into the anxious, appealing gray eyes of Miss Vost,

he cursed himself for being, or having the tendencies to be, a trifler;

and in his estimation a trifler was not far removed from the reptile

class. Yet somehow, damn it, that trip to Ching-Fu on the _Hankow_

appealed to him now as a most profitable excursion, for Ching-Fu was

only a few hundred li from Len Yang.

Something of the doughtiness of a mongoose marching into a den of

monster cobras characterized Peter Moore's intention to penetrate the

stronghold of the cinnabar king. He knew that his chances for entering

Len Yang were absurdly small. Yet the whole of the Chinese Empire was

not particularly safe for him now. The Gray Dragon had paid him the

compliment of recognizing in him an enemy. He no longer doubted

Minion's warning; the dragon of Len Yang controlled a powerful

organization. No part of China was safe. If he desired to run away

from this very actual danger in which direction could he run?

"_When menaced by danger_," runs an old Chinese proverb, "_go to the

very heart of it; there you will find safety_."

It lacked a few minutes of midnight when Peter entered the Palace bar

by the bund side. Only a few lights were burning, and the exceedingly

long teak bar--"the longest bar east of Suez"--was adorned by a few

knots of men only. Tobacco smoke was thick in the place, nearly

obscuring the doorway into the hotel lobby.

He scanned the idlers, looking for the cloth of sailormen. His quest

was ended. Bobbie MacLaurin was here, disposing of all of the imported

Scotch whiskey that came convenient to his long and muscular reach.

In a deep and sonorous voice he was pointing out to a group of

uniformed sailors, burdening his point with a club-like forefinger with

which he pounded on the edge of the teak bar, that while he rarely

drank off duty, he never drank when on. This claim Peter had reason to

know was not untrue.

The wireless operator edged his way to MacLaurin's side, and touched

his arm, making a whispered remark which the Scotchman evidently did

not comprehend. For MacLaurin wheeled on him, and bestowed upon him a

red, glassy, and hotly indignant stare.

Bobbie MacLaurin was, in the language of the sea, a whale of a man.

His head seemed unnecessarily large until you began to compare it with

his body; and his body was the despair of uniform manufacturers, who

desire above all things to make a fair percentage of profit. He was

like a living monument, two and a half hundred weight of fighting flesh

and bones, which, when all of it went into action, could better be

compared to a volcano than to a monument. Otherwise he was an

exceedingly amiable young giant.

The redness and hotness of the stare he imposed upon the friend of more

than one adventurous expedition slowly receded, leaving only the

glassiness in evidence. Bobbie fidgeted uneasily.

"Damn my hide!" he roared. "Your face is familiar! It is! It is!

Where have I seen that face before? Ah! I know now! I had a fight

with you once."

"More than once," corrected Peter Moore, grinning. "The last time was

in Panama. Remember? I tripped you up, after you knocked the wind out

of me, and you fell, clothes and all, into the Washington Hotel's

swimming tank."

"Peter Moore!" gasped Bobbie MacLaurin, and Peter Moore was smothered

in log-like arms and the fumes of considerable alcohol.

Extricating himself at length from this monstrous embrace, Peter

permitted himself to be held off at arm's length and be warmly and

loquaciously admired.

"My old side-kick of the damn old _San Felipe_!" announced Bobbie

MacLaurin to the small group of somewhat embarrassed sailors. "The

best radio man that God ever let live! He can hear a radio signal

before it's been sent. Can't you, Peter? Boys, take a long look at

the only livin' man who can fight his weight in sea serpents; the only

livin' man who ever knocked me cold, and got away with it! Boys, take

a long, lastin' look, for the pack o' you're goin' out o' that door

inside of ten counts! God bless 'um! Just look at that there Jap

get-up! Sure as God made big fish to eat the little fellows, Peter

Moore's up to some newfangled deviltry, or I'm a lobster!"

"Sh!" warned Peter Moore, conscious that in China the walls, doors,

floors, ceilings, windows, even the bartenders, have ears.

"Out with the lot of you!" barked MacLaurin. "There's big business

afoot to-night. We must be alone. Eh, Peter?"

And Peter was convinced that business could not be talked over

to-night. Of one thing only did he wish to be certain.

"You're taking the _Hankow_ up-river to-morrow?"

"That I am, Peter!"

"Then we'll take the express for Nanking to-morrow morning."

"Aye--aye! Sir!"

"We'll turn in now. Otherwise you'll look like a wreck when Miss Vost

sees you."

"Miss Vost!" exploded MacLaurin. "When did you see Miss Vost?"

"A little while ago, Bob. Shall we turn in now?"

"Miss Vost is why I'm drunk, Peter," said Bobbie MacLaurin sadly.

"So she admitted. To-morrow we'll talk her over, and other important

matters."

"As you say, Peter. I'm the brawn, but you're the brains of this

team--as always! The bunks are the order."

When Bobbie MacLaurin's not unmusical snore proceeded from the vast

bulk disposed beneath the white bedclothes, Peter Moore again descended

to the lobby, let himself into the street, and hailed a rickshaw.

The mist from the Whang-poo had changed to a slanting rain. The bund

was a ditch of clay-like mud. Each street light was a halo unto itself.

He lighted a cigarette, suffered the coolie to draw up the clammy

oilskin leg-robe to his waist, and dreamily contemplated the quagmire

that was Shanghai.

The rickshaw crossed the Soochow-Creek bridge and drew up, dripping,

under the porte-cochère of the Astor House Hotel, where a majestic

Indian door-tender emerged from the shadows, bearing a large, opened

umbrella.

Contrary to her promise Miss Vost was not waiting for his message.

However, she sent back word by the coolie, that she would dress and

come down, if he desired her to. Peter pondered a moment. A glimpse

of Miss Vost at this time of night meant nothing to him. Or was he

hungry for that glimpse? Nonsense!

He dashed off a hasty note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to

the room-boy to deliver.

He pictured her sleepy surprise as she opened it, and read:

Bobbie seems much put out. We take morning express to Nanking. Try to

make it. We'll have tea, the three of us, at Soochow.

At Soochow! There he was--at it again! A trifler.

"Damn my withered-up sense of honor, anyway!" observed Peter Moore to

himself, as he climbed into the rain-soaked rickshaw.