Chapter Eight.“Come cuttee Head off.”The night’s rest had chased away all the dull feelings that had troubled Stan, and he woke up bright, elastic, and eager for the adventures of the day. Look where he would on either shore, everything was attractive. The country was highly cultivated, and dotted with farms and dwellings belonging to what seemed to be a large and peaceable population.But his wondering gaze was soon checked by Wing, who came out of the cabin smiling, with the announcement that “bleakfas’” was ready—an announcement as pleasant in the confines of Asia as in homely Britain; and, to the lad’s delight, he found everything quite as civilised and good.Wing played the part of body-servant as ably as that of agent at thehong; and after the meal was over, and the lad had returned outside to watch the glorious panorama spread on either side of the river, his guide came deprecatingly behind him rubbing his hands.“Young Lynn wantee Wing?” he asked.“Yes; tell me,” said Stan, “how far have we to go up the river?”“Velly long way,” replied the Chinaman, holding up his left hand with the digits spread out, and using his right index-finger for a pointer as he counted, “One, two, flee, fow, fi’. Plap sick if wind no blow.”“And is it all beautiful?”“Yes; allee velly beautiful. Wing countly velly fine place.”“But are we going to sail right on up the river like this?” asked Stan.“Yes. ’Top many time. Buy cake—buy egg—buy fluit—buy duck—buy chicken—buy lil pig. Plenty good to eat. Got lice, tea, suga’. You likee have gun shoot duck?”“No,” said Stan; “there’s too much to look at without bothering about a gun.”“You likee ketchee fishee? Boy get line leady, put bait hook, young Lynn ketchee fish? Velly good eat.”“Not to-day,” replied Stan. “I want to use my eyes.”“Yes; velly good. Young Lynn use long eyes.”And before the lad had half-grasped the man’s meaning, Wing had shuffled back into the cabin, to return directly with his young master’s black leather binocular-case.“Wing load long eyes—nocklah—leady to shoot?”“Not yet,” said Stan, smiling, as he took the case, and then seated himself in a squeaking cane chair placed ready for his use, and sat back to continue watching what at times looked to him like so much beautifully painted china on a large scale.Finding that his services were not required, Wing settled himself down upon a stool just inside the cabin entrance, and at once became busy without attracting his young master’s notice, till the boat came abreast of a beautifully shaped pagoda, evidently built with blue and white tiles, and having a marvellously striking effect in the bright sunshine, as it rose from a verdant gorge half-way up a rugged mountain-side whose slope ran steeply down to the river, which bathed its rocky foot.“What a landmark!” thought Stan. “If one were lost, how easy it would be to look out for that tall temple and make for it!”The glittering tiers of glazed earthenware rose one above the other, each with its wavy, puckered eaves and points bearing little bells, the topmost stories looking as if the builders had possessed ambitious ideas of making the highest pinnacle pierce the soft blue sky; and as the new-comer kept his admiring eyes fixed upon the beautiful work, the boat glided on, forcing him to turn his head a little more and a little more, till it was wrenched round so much that Wing began to appear at the left-hand corners of his eyes, and interested the lad so much by the busy interest he took in his work that Stan’s gaze became gradually transferred from the temple to the man, who went on with what he was about in profound ignorance of being observed.It was something fresh to Stan, who more than ever realised the fact that, in spite of being heavy and plain of feature, Wing was a bit of a buck in his way, and one who took great pains to impress upon the common coolies with whom he came in contact that he belonged to a higher grade of native—one of a class who never dreamed of defiling their hands with hard work, and kept up at great trouble by many signs, in the shape of finger-nails, of their being head and not hand craftsmen.When Stan first caught sight of him, Wing was very carefully taking off what looked like a wooden thimble, which had been formed by scraping and filing down a suitable portion of a joint of bamboo; and as this thimble-like piece was removed, the man again laid bare a long, curved finger-nail, whose point, carefully polished and smoothed, was quite an inch above the quick, and evidently “still growing.”“What silly nonsense!” thought Stan. “What an absurd idea! Why, if he caught that nail in anything it would break down and become a painful hang-nail.”But it soon became evident that Wing did not mean to break down that nail, for after a certain amount of scraping and polishing it was carefully covered with its thimble-like sheath, before the index-finger on his left hand was uncovered to go through the same process as its fellow.As Stan watched he became aware of the fact that the left middle finger-nail had met with a mishap, having in all probability been broken right down, and was now being nursed up again to an aristocratic height.All at once the man raised his eyes as if to see how his young master was getting on, and started as he saw that he was being watched.“Are we likely to see any pirates up the river here?” said Stan quietly.The man shook his head.“Wing no tell,” he said gravely as he began to cover up his much-petted nails. “Plaps many bad man—plaps not none ’tall. Plenty pilate evely-wheah. Plenty bad soljee. Wing hope nevah see none no mo’. Velly glad leave boat and begin walk back. Plenty pilate on livah; plenty bad soljee way flom livah.”“Then the discharged soldiers are worse than the pirates, Wing?” said Stan, smiling.“Not laugh at,” said the man solemnly. “Allee dleadful bad man. Killee people and takee evely-thing away. Lun fass?”“What do you mean—can I run fast?”“Yes; lun velly fass?”“Yes; I think so. Do you think we shall have to run away from some of these men?”“Yes. Lun away and hide.”“Oh, I suppose I could run well enough,” replied Stan; “but of course I don’t want to.”“No; Wing don’t want lun away, but pilate—soljee makee him. Velly fass; come cuttee head off.”“This is pleasant!” thought Stan. “It sounds like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire.”The consequence of this conversation was that whenever Stan could tear his eyes from the beauty and novelty of the shore on either side he was narrowly scanning the various vessels which came into sight, the greater part being small sailing-boats. But every now and then in the course of the day the tall matting sails of some towering junk would come gliding round a bend, partially hidden, perhaps, by the trees which fringed the banks; and as soon as this was seen, Stan noted that there was a little stir among the quiet, placid-looking boatmen, who began to whisper among themselves. Then, if Wing had not seen the stranger, one of them moved to where he stood and drew his attention to the distant object.The guide seemed to be gifted with wonderfully powerful sight, which he generally used with the result that every man was placed at his ease at once. But not always. To use a nautical phrase, Wing was not upon every occasion satisfied with the cut of the stranger’s jib, and upon these occasions he turned to his young master.“Young Lynn lettee Wing look flou’ double eyeglass?”The binocular was handed at once, and after a great deal of focussing, handed back.“No pilate. Tea-boat. Allee good man.”Or he might speak with a greater tone of reverence as he shaded his eyes:“Big junk muchee fullee silk. Wing think junk go down whalf see Misteh Blunt.”“Not enemies, then?” said Stan.“No; velly good fliend.”“But there are the big eyes painted on each side of the bows.”“Yes,” said Wing, smiling; “but good boat. No cally stink-pot to flow on boat and set fi’. No big bang gong and lot fighting-man all ovah. No. That velly good boat, and not hu’t people. Wing tell when he sees bad boat. Lun away then.”“On shore?”“Tly go down livah get away. Pilate come too fass. Lun to side and go light away.”“But what will become of the boat?” asked Stan.“Pilate send man. Take allee good thing. Set fi’.”“Mr Blunt would not like that.”“No. Velly angly. Kick up big low and say Wing gleat fool.”“And what would you say?” asked Stan. “Say velly solly. Gleat pity lose nice topside boat b’long Blunt.”“Of course.”“But much gleat pity let pilate man choppee off Wing head and all men head. Can makee nicee boat again; can’tee makee velly good boatman.”Stan agreed that this was a perfectly sound argument, and during the rest of the little voyage up the river he always felt greatly relieved when his guide was able to announce that the boats they passed were men of peace and not men-o’-war.But as day succeeded day in lovely weather, and the journey continued through a glorious country, the bugbear pirates died out of the lad’s thoughts; and on the last evening, when Wing announced that they would land at a big city in the morning, and leave the boat to go back to thehong, Stan was ready to believe that his guide had been playing alarmist a great deal more than was necessary, and told him so. But Wing shook his head. “No,” he said; “pilate velly bad sometime.”“But we shall find the land journey no worse—there will be no discharged soldiers wandering about ready to interfere with us?”“Wing hope allee gone, but can’tee tell. Plenty fliend people heah. Tell Wing when soljee come. Young Lynn and Wing lun away.”
The night’s rest had chased away all the dull feelings that had troubled Stan, and he woke up bright, elastic, and eager for the adventures of the day. Look where he would on either shore, everything was attractive. The country was highly cultivated, and dotted with farms and dwellings belonging to what seemed to be a large and peaceable population.
But his wondering gaze was soon checked by Wing, who came out of the cabin smiling, with the announcement that “bleakfas’” was ready—an announcement as pleasant in the confines of Asia as in homely Britain; and, to the lad’s delight, he found everything quite as civilised and good.
Wing played the part of body-servant as ably as that of agent at thehong; and after the meal was over, and the lad had returned outside to watch the glorious panorama spread on either side of the river, his guide came deprecatingly behind him rubbing his hands.
“Young Lynn wantee Wing?” he asked.
“Yes; tell me,” said Stan, “how far have we to go up the river?”
“Velly long way,” replied the Chinaman, holding up his left hand with the digits spread out, and using his right index-finger for a pointer as he counted, “One, two, flee, fow, fi’. Plap sick if wind no blow.”
“And is it all beautiful?”
“Yes; allee velly beautiful. Wing countly velly fine place.”
“But are we going to sail right on up the river like this?” asked Stan.
“Yes. ’Top many time. Buy cake—buy egg—buy fluit—buy duck—buy chicken—buy lil pig. Plenty good to eat. Got lice, tea, suga’. You likee have gun shoot duck?”
“No,” said Stan; “there’s too much to look at without bothering about a gun.”
“You likee ketchee fishee? Boy get line leady, put bait hook, young Lynn ketchee fish? Velly good eat.”
“Not to-day,” replied Stan. “I want to use my eyes.”
“Yes; velly good. Young Lynn use long eyes.”
And before the lad had half-grasped the man’s meaning, Wing had shuffled back into the cabin, to return directly with his young master’s black leather binocular-case.
“Wing load long eyes—nocklah—leady to shoot?”
“Not yet,” said Stan, smiling, as he took the case, and then seated himself in a squeaking cane chair placed ready for his use, and sat back to continue watching what at times looked to him like so much beautifully painted china on a large scale.
Finding that his services were not required, Wing settled himself down upon a stool just inside the cabin entrance, and at once became busy without attracting his young master’s notice, till the boat came abreast of a beautifully shaped pagoda, evidently built with blue and white tiles, and having a marvellously striking effect in the bright sunshine, as it rose from a verdant gorge half-way up a rugged mountain-side whose slope ran steeply down to the river, which bathed its rocky foot.
“What a landmark!” thought Stan. “If one were lost, how easy it would be to look out for that tall temple and make for it!”
The glittering tiers of glazed earthenware rose one above the other, each with its wavy, puckered eaves and points bearing little bells, the topmost stories looking as if the builders had possessed ambitious ideas of making the highest pinnacle pierce the soft blue sky; and as the new-comer kept his admiring eyes fixed upon the beautiful work, the boat glided on, forcing him to turn his head a little more and a little more, till it was wrenched round so much that Wing began to appear at the left-hand corners of his eyes, and interested the lad so much by the busy interest he took in his work that Stan’s gaze became gradually transferred from the temple to the man, who went on with what he was about in profound ignorance of being observed.
It was something fresh to Stan, who more than ever realised the fact that, in spite of being heavy and plain of feature, Wing was a bit of a buck in his way, and one who took great pains to impress upon the common coolies with whom he came in contact that he belonged to a higher grade of native—one of a class who never dreamed of defiling their hands with hard work, and kept up at great trouble by many signs, in the shape of finger-nails, of their being head and not hand craftsmen.
When Stan first caught sight of him, Wing was very carefully taking off what looked like a wooden thimble, which had been formed by scraping and filing down a suitable portion of a joint of bamboo; and as this thimble-like piece was removed, the man again laid bare a long, curved finger-nail, whose point, carefully polished and smoothed, was quite an inch above the quick, and evidently “still growing.”
“What silly nonsense!” thought Stan. “What an absurd idea! Why, if he caught that nail in anything it would break down and become a painful hang-nail.”
But it soon became evident that Wing did not mean to break down that nail, for after a certain amount of scraping and polishing it was carefully covered with its thimble-like sheath, before the index-finger on his left hand was uncovered to go through the same process as its fellow.
As Stan watched he became aware of the fact that the left middle finger-nail had met with a mishap, having in all probability been broken right down, and was now being nursed up again to an aristocratic height.
All at once the man raised his eyes as if to see how his young master was getting on, and started as he saw that he was being watched.
“Are we likely to see any pirates up the river here?” said Stan quietly.
The man shook his head.
“Wing no tell,” he said gravely as he began to cover up his much-petted nails. “Plaps many bad man—plaps not none ’tall. Plenty pilate evely-wheah. Plenty bad soljee. Wing hope nevah see none no mo’. Velly glad leave boat and begin walk back. Plenty pilate on livah; plenty bad soljee way flom livah.”
“Then the discharged soldiers are worse than the pirates, Wing?” said Stan, smiling.
“Not laugh at,” said the man solemnly. “Allee dleadful bad man. Killee people and takee evely-thing away. Lun fass?”
“What do you mean—can I run fast?”
“Yes; lun velly fass?”
“Yes; I think so. Do you think we shall have to run away from some of these men?”
“Yes. Lun away and hide.”
“Oh, I suppose I could run well enough,” replied Stan; “but of course I don’t want to.”
“No; Wing don’t want lun away, but pilate—soljee makee him. Velly fass; come cuttee head off.”
“This is pleasant!” thought Stan. “It sounds like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
The consequence of this conversation was that whenever Stan could tear his eyes from the beauty and novelty of the shore on either side he was narrowly scanning the various vessels which came into sight, the greater part being small sailing-boats. But every now and then in the course of the day the tall matting sails of some towering junk would come gliding round a bend, partially hidden, perhaps, by the trees which fringed the banks; and as soon as this was seen, Stan noted that there was a little stir among the quiet, placid-looking boatmen, who began to whisper among themselves. Then, if Wing had not seen the stranger, one of them moved to where he stood and drew his attention to the distant object.
The guide seemed to be gifted with wonderfully powerful sight, which he generally used with the result that every man was placed at his ease at once. But not always. To use a nautical phrase, Wing was not upon every occasion satisfied with the cut of the stranger’s jib, and upon these occasions he turned to his young master.
“Young Lynn lettee Wing look flou’ double eyeglass?”
The binocular was handed at once, and after a great deal of focussing, handed back.
“No pilate. Tea-boat. Allee good man.”
Or he might speak with a greater tone of reverence as he shaded his eyes:
“Big junk muchee fullee silk. Wing think junk go down whalf see Misteh Blunt.”
“Not enemies, then?” said Stan.
“No; velly good fliend.”
“But there are the big eyes painted on each side of the bows.”
“Yes,” said Wing, smiling; “but good boat. No cally stink-pot to flow on boat and set fi’. No big bang gong and lot fighting-man all ovah. No. That velly good boat, and not hu’t people. Wing tell when he sees bad boat. Lun away then.”
“On shore?”
“Tly go down livah get away. Pilate come too fass. Lun to side and go light away.”
“But what will become of the boat?” asked Stan.
“Pilate send man. Take allee good thing. Set fi’.”
“Mr Blunt would not like that.”
“No. Velly angly. Kick up big low and say Wing gleat fool.”
“And what would you say?” asked Stan. “Say velly solly. Gleat pity lose nice topside boat b’long Blunt.”
“Of course.”
“But much gleat pity let pilate man choppee off Wing head and all men head. Can makee nicee boat again; can’tee makee velly good boatman.”
Stan agreed that this was a perfectly sound argument, and during the rest of the little voyage up the river he always felt greatly relieved when his guide was able to announce that the boats they passed were men of peace and not men-o’-war.
But as day succeeded day in lovely weather, and the journey continued through a glorious country, the bugbear pirates died out of the lad’s thoughts; and on the last evening, when Wing announced that they would land at a big city in the morning, and leave the boat to go back to thehong, Stan was ready to believe that his guide had been playing alarmist a great deal more than was necessary, and told him so. But Wing shook his head. “No,” he said; “pilate velly bad sometime.”
“But we shall find the land journey no worse—there will be no discharged soldiers wandering about ready to interfere with us?”
“Wing hope allee gone, but can’tee tell. Plenty fliend people heah. Tell Wing when soljee come. Young Lynn and Wing lun away.”
Chapter Nine.“A Fierce Struggle Ensued.”Stan altered his opinion the next day when they reached a busy city built on both sides of the river, for Wing gave him a quiet hint to look, and upon turning, the lad found that they were gliding by a towering junk whose deck swarmed with villainous-looking men all well armed, while at intervals they passed four more.“Allee bad,” whispered Wing. “No lookee; pletend can’t see pilate ship.”Five more were passed, all of which were given a bad character; but their occupants were lying about, smoking and sleeping, eating and drinking; and being close up to the quays and warehouses of the teeming city, the men were upon their best behaviour, and not disposed to seize and plunder such small fry as the little boat from thehong.Hence it was that Stan’ssampanremained untouched, and reached the disembarking place in safety.Here, evidently so as not to draw attention to his young chief, Wing slung a few necessaries, scale fashion, at either end of a bamboo, balanced his load across his left shoulder, and after giving the boatmen a few instructions which led to their setting off at once on the return journey, he led Stan away from the riverside, right into the busy part of the city, where no notice was taken of them. A short time after the lad found himself at the house of one of the Chinese merchants, who gave him a warm welcome, and talked with him in pidgin-English about his father and uncle.Stan noticed that he exhibited no little inquisitiveness about his further proceedings, shaking his head and looking very solemn as he hinted that the country was in a very disturbed state.“But Mr Wing will know how to take care,” he said. “He will know, too, that the farther you keep from the river the less likely you are to meet with pirates or wandering bands of soldiers. You must take care.”Wing evidently meant to take care, for that evening, after dark, he laid his hand upon Stan’s shoulder and drew him away from the window.“Too many bad man,” he said, directing the lad’s attention to the rough-looking armed people lounging about the street. “See young Lynn and say, ‘Foleign devil. What want heah?’ No look out window. Go to bed. Sleep.”Stan laughed at the ultra-precautions taken, but obeyed, and for want of something to occupy himself, lay down quite early, to listen to the shuffling of feet and the loud conversation going on below his window, thinking the while that he would most likely lie awake all night. But before he could make an effort to combat the drowsiness that had seized upon him he was fast asleep, and the next thing he knew was that Wing was shaking his arm.“What is it?” he cried. “Coming to bed?”“Get-up time,” replied the Chinaman. “Mollow molning. Come ’long.”“But,”—began Stan. He said no more, his mouth stretching wide in a portentous yawn; and, still half-asleep, he suffered himself to be led out of the house and along a dark, uneven street, the air of which felt chilly, as if the morning was close at hand.Twice over he began to question Wing, but received a hurried whisper to be silent, and by degrees it dawned upon him that their land journey had commenced, and that Wing was nervously anxious lest their departure should become known.“Soljees,” he whispered, and put his hand to his lips.“Why, there’s not a soul about,” said Stan to himself, feeling sleepy, and out of temper to a degree that made him ready to quarrel with his guide for taking such unnecessary precautions.But he remained silent, and trudged on close behind his companion, stumbling every now and then in the darkness, and longing the while for the coming of broad daylight, so that he could avoid the rough stones and mud-holes which seemed to be always in his way.He was surprised, too, at the extent of the city, for no sooner was one devious street passed than they plunged into another, their wanderings lasting for what must have been close upon half-an-hour, before they plunged into a narrower passage than ever—one where the overhanging eaves on either side seemed to nearly touch—while right in front a huge wall towered up, looking jetty black, all but a square patch on a level with their feet.“Why, this must be a big house into which we are going,” he thought.But the idea had no sooner crossed his mind than he felt his arm gripped, and Wing checked him so suddenly that he came heavily against his guide’s chest.“What’s the matter?” whispered Stan.“St! Big gate. Plentee soljee fass sleepee,” whispered Wing. “Now come ’long, quick, quick.”He slipped his hand down to the lad’s waist as he spoke, and drew him along past where Stan dimly made out a group of men sitting and lying upon a big bench beneath a great shadowy house.There was no time to see more before they were out on the other side, with the great building reared up in the gloom behind them, and a feeling of freedom as of an open space in front.So great a sense of relief came over the lad that he felt bound to speak; but certain sounds behind checked him once more, and he turned cold at the proximity of the danger they had escaped.For a deep, gruff voice growled out something he could not interpret, and this was replied to by another voice, evidently that of a man newly aroused from sleep.The brief conversation was carried on angrily, and interrupted again and again as if the speakers kept listening.This was proved to Stan by the firm pressure of Wing’s hand, and the twitches it kept on giving as he stood otherwise quite motionless.Stan’s heart beat till a feeling of suffocation began to oppress him, while with straining eyes he tried to penetrate the dark shadows behind. At last, however, the talking ceased, and he felt the hand which Wing had at liberty pressing upon the top of his head as if to make him stoop down. Grasping his guide’s wishes, he bent low, and immediately felt himself drawn onward, the pair stealing along softly in the darkness as silently as possible, and as quickly, for before they had gone many yards Stan was conscious of the fact that there was a long, pale line of light right ahead, and that it was not so dark; for on glancing over his shoulder he could dimly see the gate through which they had come, a huge structure with curving roof and vast eaves, dominating a high wall which went off into the darkness right and left.“Velly neah ketchee ketchee,” said Wing, with a sigh of relief.“But suppose they had caught us,” said Stan; “I am an English subject, and you are my attendant. They dared not have kept us.”Wing uttered a funny little squeak.“Eh?” he cried. “Wheah Englis’ sailoh? No Englis’ man-o’-wha, and big gun go bang two time. Chinaman velly much aflaid when Englis’ soljee—sailoh heah. Not heah now; Chinaman laugh; say, ‘Don’t ca’e mandalin button.’ Chinese soljee ketchee young Lynn—Wing. Say, ‘Don’t ca’e nobody.’ Puttee in plison. P’l’aps nevah come out again. Velly bad.”“Ah, well! they didn’t see us,” said Stan, “so let’s go on faster.”“Yes; go fastee now. Go long way, have bleakfast. Don’tee want see soljee. Plentee don’t ca’e lobbah. Steal dollah. Takee young Lynn gold watch. Velly bad, wicked man.”“We shan’t meet any of them now, I suppose?” said Stan as he gave an uneasy look round at the fast-broadening dawn.“Wing no know. Velly likely bad soljee come. Velly likely no bad soljee come. Allee same pilate on livah. Don’t know quite safe till get home. Wing velly glad get home tohong. S’pose get home and no young Lynn. Misteh Blunt say, ‘Where young Lynn?’ and Wing say been gone lose young Lynn. Misteh Blunt call Wing dleadful name. Nea’ly kill Wing.”“Then you must not lose me, Wing.”“No; no must lose young Lynn. Takee gleat ca’e young Lynn.”He nodded and smiled as he hurried his companion along, till the great gateway began to grow small in the distance, and the glazed tiles of the roof glittered and flashed and grew confused; while in the distance, far down the rough track, a temple seemed to rise out of a clump of trees, at whose edge a few humble-looking houses appeared beyond where the regularity of the enclosures told of cultivation.A short time later Wing’s next words sent a thrill of satisfaction through Stan, for he laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands.“Good bleakfast,” he said. “Plenty eat, plenty tea. Wing know allee people.”Before they had gone much farther Stan was in possession of the information that the place they were approaching was a large tea-farm, with its warehouses, and sheds where tea-chests were made; and that for a long time past the produce of this farm had been sent down regularly to thehongby one or other of the trading-junks that bore the up-country produce to the stores of the foreign merchants.This was interesting enough, and suggestive of the journey now becoming perfectly peaceful. But Stan’s main ideas at this time were in connection with the expected meal, so that plenty of energy was brought to bear to get over the intervening distance; while, to make matters better, it soon became evident that they were seen. People came out to stand in the sunshine, shading their eyes and watching the coming visitors. Wing’s signals were answered, and a couple of young men came running and recognised the guide, when the visitors were eagerly welcomed to join the morning meal that had been prepared.The troubles of the early morning were soon forgotten, while, but for the strangeness of his surroundings, there were moments when Stan could have fancied that he was enjoying the hospitality of some farmer’s family thousands of miles away in old Devon. But the satisfaction was only short-lived, for the meal was hardly at an end before the door and windows were darkened prior to being thrown open by a crowd of rough-looking men bearing clumsy weapons.Wing was seated with his back to the door, and at first saw nothing, for Stan, who had the fresh-comers in full view, felt that the best plan would be to sit perfectly calm and unconcerned.And this he did till Wing, startled by the darkening of the window, looked quickly round and sprang to his feet.“Lun! lun!” he whispered sharply to his young charge; and catching at his wrist, he tried to drag him towards the door in the back of the place.He was too late.A rush was made by the rough-looking soldiers, several of whom literally pounced upon Stan, hurling him down to the floor; and as he, naturally enough, made a brave dash for liberty, a fierce struggle ensued, in which the lad had ample proof of the futility of a half-grown boy trying to resist the united efforts of half-a-dozen heavily built men.Of course, the struggle did not last many minutes before Stan found himself upon the earthen floor of the Chinese house, with four men seated upon him, leaving him hard work to get his breath, as he stared wildly round to see how his companion had fared.But he looked in vain, for in the noise and confusion Wing had managed to get behind some of the people of the house, who willingly helped him to pass outside, leaving Stan to his fate.“A coward!” muttered the boy as soon as he had satisfied himself that Wing had gone.“No,” he added after a few moments’ thought; “he couldn’t help it, poor fellow! I know: he has escaped. He’ll go down the river to warn Mr Blunt, and he’ll get help from the port. They’ll send men up from one of the ships to get me set at liberty. For these people will not dare to hurt me. I’ll be bound to say that Mr Blunt will soon get to know, and if these scoundrels are not punished severely for this it is strange to me.”
Stan altered his opinion the next day when they reached a busy city built on both sides of the river, for Wing gave him a quiet hint to look, and upon turning, the lad found that they were gliding by a towering junk whose deck swarmed with villainous-looking men all well armed, while at intervals they passed four more.
“Allee bad,” whispered Wing. “No lookee; pletend can’t see pilate ship.”
Five more were passed, all of which were given a bad character; but their occupants were lying about, smoking and sleeping, eating and drinking; and being close up to the quays and warehouses of the teeming city, the men were upon their best behaviour, and not disposed to seize and plunder such small fry as the little boat from thehong.
Hence it was that Stan’ssampanremained untouched, and reached the disembarking place in safety.
Here, evidently so as not to draw attention to his young chief, Wing slung a few necessaries, scale fashion, at either end of a bamboo, balanced his load across his left shoulder, and after giving the boatmen a few instructions which led to their setting off at once on the return journey, he led Stan away from the riverside, right into the busy part of the city, where no notice was taken of them. A short time after the lad found himself at the house of one of the Chinese merchants, who gave him a warm welcome, and talked with him in pidgin-English about his father and uncle.
Stan noticed that he exhibited no little inquisitiveness about his further proceedings, shaking his head and looking very solemn as he hinted that the country was in a very disturbed state.
“But Mr Wing will know how to take care,” he said. “He will know, too, that the farther you keep from the river the less likely you are to meet with pirates or wandering bands of soldiers. You must take care.”
Wing evidently meant to take care, for that evening, after dark, he laid his hand upon Stan’s shoulder and drew him away from the window.
“Too many bad man,” he said, directing the lad’s attention to the rough-looking armed people lounging about the street. “See young Lynn and say, ‘Foleign devil. What want heah?’ No look out window. Go to bed. Sleep.”
Stan laughed at the ultra-precautions taken, but obeyed, and for want of something to occupy himself, lay down quite early, to listen to the shuffling of feet and the loud conversation going on below his window, thinking the while that he would most likely lie awake all night. But before he could make an effort to combat the drowsiness that had seized upon him he was fast asleep, and the next thing he knew was that Wing was shaking his arm.
“What is it?” he cried. “Coming to bed?”
“Get-up time,” replied the Chinaman. “Mollow molning. Come ’long.”
“But,”—began Stan. He said no more, his mouth stretching wide in a portentous yawn; and, still half-asleep, he suffered himself to be led out of the house and along a dark, uneven street, the air of which felt chilly, as if the morning was close at hand.
Twice over he began to question Wing, but received a hurried whisper to be silent, and by degrees it dawned upon him that their land journey had commenced, and that Wing was nervously anxious lest their departure should become known.
“Soljees,” he whispered, and put his hand to his lips.
“Why, there’s not a soul about,” said Stan to himself, feeling sleepy, and out of temper to a degree that made him ready to quarrel with his guide for taking such unnecessary precautions.
But he remained silent, and trudged on close behind his companion, stumbling every now and then in the darkness, and longing the while for the coming of broad daylight, so that he could avoid the rough stones and mud-holes which seemed to be always in his way.
He was surprised, too, at the extent of the city, for no sooner was one devious street passed than they plunged into another, their wanderings lasting for what must have been close upon half-an-hour, before they plunged into a narrower passage than ever—one where the overhanging eaves on either side seemed to nearly touch—while right in front a huge wall towered up, looking jetty black, all but a square patch on a level with their feet.
“Why, this must be a big house into which we are going,” he thought.
But the idea had no sooner crossed his mind than he felt his arm gripped, and Wing checked him so suddenly that he came heavily against his guide’s chest.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Stan.
“St! Big gate. Plentee soljee fass sleepee,” whispered Wing. “Now come ’long, quick, quick.”
He slipped his hand down to the lad’s waist as he spoke, and drew him along past where Stan dimly made out a group of men sitting and lying upon a big bench beneath a great shadowy house.
There was no time to see more before they were out on the other side, with the great building reared up in the gloom behind them, and a feeling of freedom as of an open space in front.
So great a sense of relief came over the lad that he felt bound to speak; but certain sounds behind checked him once more, and he turned cold at the proximity of the danger they had escaped.
For a deep, gruff voice growled out something he could not interpret, and this was replied to by another voice, evidently that of a man newly aroused from sleep.
The brief conversation was carried on angrily, and interrupted again and again as if the speakers kept listening.
This was proved to Stan by the firm pressure of Wing’s hand, and the twitches it kept on giving as he stood otherwise quite motionless.
Stan’s heart beat till a feeling of suffocation began to oppress him, while with straining eyes he tried to penetrate the dark shadows behind. At last, however, the talking ceased, and he felt the hand which Wing had at liberty pressing upon the top of his head as if to make him stoop down. Grasping his guide’s wishes, he bent low, and immediately felt himself drawn onward, the pair stealing along softly in the darkness as silently as possible, and as quickly, for before they had gone many yards Stan was conscious of the fact that there was a long, pale line of light right ahead, and that it was not so dark; for on glancing over his shoulder he could dimly see the gate through which they had come, a huge structure with curving roof and vast eaves, dominating a high wall which went off into the darkness right and left.
“Velly neah ketchee ketchee,” said Wing, with a sigh of relief.
“But suppose they had caught us,” said Stan; “I am an English subject, and you are my attendant. They dared not have kept us.”
Wing uttered a funny little squeak.
“Eh?” he cried. “Wheah Englis’ sailoh? No Englis’ man-o’-wha, and big gun go bang two time. Chinaman velly much aflaid when Englis’ soljee—sailoh heah. Not heah now; Chinaman laugh; say, ‘Don’t ca’e mandalin button.’ Chinese soljee ketchee young Lynn—Wing. Say, ‘Don’t ca’e nobody.’ Puttee in plison. P’l’aps nevah come out again. Velly bad.”
“Ah, well! they didn’t see us,” said Stan, “so let’s go on faster.”
“Yes; go fastee now. Go long way, have bleakfast. Don’tee want see soljee. Plentee don’t ca’e lobbah. Steal dollah. Takee young Lynn gold watch. Velly bad, wicked man.”
“We shan’t meet any of them now, I suppose?” said Stan as he gave an uneasy look round at the fast-broadening dawn.
“Wing no know. Velly likely bad soljee come. Velly likely no bad soljee come. Allee same pilate on livah. Don’t know quite safe till get home. Wing velly glad get home tohong. S’pose get home and no young Lynn. Misteh Blunt say, ‘Where young Lynn?’ and Wing say been gone lose young Lynn. Misteh Blunt call Wing dleadful name. Nea’ly kill Wing.”
“Then you must not lose me, Wing.”
“No; no must lose young Lynn. Takee gleat ca’e young Lynn.”
He nodded and smiled as he hurried his companion along, till the great gateway began to grow small in the distance, and the glazed tiles of the roof glittered and flashed and grew confused; while in the distance, far down the rough track, a temple seemed to rise out of a clump of trees, at whose edge a few humble-looking houses appeared beyond where the regularity of the enclosures told of cultivation.
A short time later Wing’s next words sent a thrill of satisfaction through Stan, for he laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands.
“Good bleakfast,” he said. “Plenty eat, plenty tea. Wing know allee people.”
Before they had gone much farther Stan was in possession of the information that the place they were approaching was a large tea-farm, with its warehouses, and sheds where tea-chests were made; and that for a long time past the produce of this farm had been sent down regularly to thehongby one or other of the trading-junks that bore the up-country produce to the stores of the foreign merchants.
This was interesting enough, and suggestive of the journey now becoming perfectly peaceful. But Stan’s main ideas at this time were in connection with the expected meal, so that plenty of energy was brought to bear to get over the intervening distance; while, to make matters better, it soon became evident that they were seen. People came out to stand in the sunshine, shading their eyes and watching the coming visitors. Wing’s signals were answered, and a couple of young men came running and recognised the guide, when the visitors were eagerly welcomed to join the morning meal that had been prepared.
The troubles of the early morning were soon forgotten, while, but for the strangeness of his surroundings, there were moments when Stan could have fancied that he was enjoying the hospitality of some farmer’s family thousands of miles away in old Devon. But the satisfaction was only short-lived, for the meal was hardly at an end before the door and windows were darkened prior to being thrown open by a crowd of rough-looking men bearing clumsy weapons.
Wing was seated with his back to the door, and at first saw nothing, for Stan, who had the fresh-comers in full view, felt that the best plan would be to sit perfectly calm and unconcerned.
And this he did till Wing, startled by the darkening of the window, looked quickly round and sprang to his feet.
“Lun! lun!” he whispered sharply to his young charge; and catching at his wrist, he tried to drag him towards the door in the back of the place.
He was too late.
A rush was made by the rough-looking soldiers, several of whom literally pounced upon Stan, hurling him down to the floor; and as he, naturally enough, made a brave dash for liberty, a fierce struggle ensued, in which the lad had ample proof of the futility of a half-grown boy trying to resist the united efforts of half-a-dozen heavily built men.
Of course, the struggle did not last many minutes before Stan found himself upon the earthen floor of the Chinese house, with four men seated upon him, leaving him hard work to get his breath, as he stared wildly round to see how his companion had fared.
But he looked in vain, for in the noise and confusion Wing had managed to get behind some of the people of the house, who willingly helped him to pass outside, leaving Stan to his fate.
“A coward!” muttered the boy as soon as he had satisfied himself that Wing had gone.
“No,” he added after a few moments’ thought; “he couldn’t help it, poor fellow! I know: he has escaped. He’ll go down the river to warn Mr Blunt, and he’ll get help from the port. They’ll send men up from one of the ships to get me set at liberty. For these people will not dare to hurt me. I’ll be bound to say that Mr Blunt will soon get to know, and if these scoundrels are not punished severely for this it is strange to me.”
Chapter Ten.“Cowardly Brutes!”Stan had the stout old tea-farmer who owned the place to thank for the rescue from his extremely awkward position. For, making tremendous use of his tongue, in words which, if interpreted, undoubtedly would have proved to mean, “Let the lad get up, you brutes; can’t you see that you are nearly stifling him?” the farmer supplemented his fierce verbal abuse with blows and thrusts which, in spite of being armed, the invaders made no attempt to resist. They gave way good-humouredly enough, evidently being quite satisfied with their capture; and after taking the precaution to station a spearman at each door and window, they allowed Stan to rise, and then bound him hand and foot to the framework of a cane chair, which they planted full in sight in the middle of the room, before crowding to the well-spread table and making a raid upon the food.This evoked another torrent of abuse, in which the farmer was stoutly aided by two sturdy young fellows—apparently his sons—his fat wife, and a couple of men.The farmer seemed to be blessed with a grand vocabulary, and to be well skilled in giving volleys of abuse; but he might have spared his breath for all the effect his words had upon Stan’s captors. They listened calmly enough, and as the boy looked on it seemed to him that all the bullying did was to give the rough party of soldiers an excellent appetite. In fact, the more the farmer raved the more they ate and gave orders for the big teapot to be filled; while, when the farmer ceased shouting, the visitors ceased eating and took out their pipes to a man.A few minutes later the table had been cleared by the tea-farmer’s people, and a couple of the biggest soldiers rose at an order from their leader, seized the chair by its two sides, and then heaved together, lifting it on high and dropping it upon the table, where Stan had the misery of finding himself the observed of all observers; being treated as a newly captured foreign devil planted there for inspection, every man staring hard after precisely the stupid, open-mouthed fashion of some of our own country louts.Now and then a remark would be passed by some smoker which brought the angry blood to the lad’s cheeks; for, though not to be exactly interpreted, its meaning was evidently derisive, and afforded amusement to the lookers-on at Stan’s expense.“Cowardly brutes!” he muttered; and that was the only satisfaction he could get, save that of indulging in hopes that Wing was well on his way to the big city, where he would be sure to get into communication with some one or other of the principal traders, and from them obtain an audience with the chief mandarin, who, as a Government official, would feel himself bound to interfere on behalf of the young Englishman who had been seized.And so a couple of hours dragged slowly along, at the end of which time the prisoner began to come to the conclusion that he had allowed Wing time to get to the river city, and that when he had patiently waited another two hours Wing would have fulfilled his mission and be on his way back with some of the mandarin’s guards.But, to his dismay, Stan found that he was not to wait there till Wing returned; for all at once the man in command of the rough soldiery growled out an order, which resulted in a clumsy tumbling together of the party and the production of two very large, thick bamboo poles.These were laid right in front of the farmhouse, and then the chair was seized and lifted down, to be carried out to where the bamboos lay, these being passed between the legs and there lashed.“Am I to be turned into a Guy Fawkes?” muttered Stan angrily, as he gave himself a wrench in his seat to try and loosen his bandages.But the result was vile. The captain of the party uttered a furious growl and made-believe to draw his sword, while a couple of his men seized the prisoner, holding him down fast, and a third dropped upon his knees and proceeded to tighten the thongs with such savage violence that the pain turned the lad faint, making him hang back quite lax, with the great drops of perspiration gathering on his forehead.It was while everything seemed to be sailing round him that he became conscious of a peculiar, shaking motion which sharpened the pain he suffered. But the sickening sensation passed off, and he became fully conscious, to his great disgust, that he was being made the principal figure—carried shoulder-high as he was—in a triumphal procession on its way, so far as he could judge, back towards the great gate, which he could dimly see towering up in the distance.They were right out in the country, with rice-fields and plantations in all directions, so that the inhabitants were scarce; but the people of the farm closed up as near as his captors would allow, and as they tramped slowly along, Stan from his elevated, swaying perch could see men at a distance throwing down the tools with which they were working, and trotting along with their tails bobbing between their shoulders, some to overtake, others to meet, and all to join in the procession.“Why, they treat it as if it were some show—the wretches!” said Stan to himself. “Ugh! How I should like to give it to some of them! Grinning at me! Yes, actually grinning at me! Why, I believe they look upon me as a newly caught foreign devil, and they’re following to see me executed, or—Oh, surely they won’t do that!”A sudden thought had flashed across his brain—an echo or reflection of something he had read or seen in connection with some poor wretch being kept as a captive by the Chinese and exhibited in a great bamboo cage.The first effect of the thought was to send a shiver through him, chilling him to the bone; the following minute a sensation of heat made him flush to the temples, and he ground his teeth.“Yes,” he said to himself, “they’d better! No, they daren’t. They’re pig-headed enough, but they must know that I’m an Englishman—well, an English boy, then,” he added correctively. “Oh, they daren’t! I’m only my father’s son—plain Stanley Lynn—but as soon as they knew at headquarters they’d send a gunboat to demand me; and—of course—yes, it’s a fine thing to be a British subject, for even if I am only a boy, our English Minister wouldn’t have a hair of my head injured—if he could help it.”Stan thought this addition to his musings in a very different spirit to that which had preceded it. One minute he was proud and elated at the idea that he was an Englishman, with a general touch-me-if-you-dare sort of sensation making his eyes flash and sparkle and his cheeks glow; the next he was fully awake to the fact that he was a tightly bound prisoner, having a most abominable ride to some cage, alone and helpless among an inimical race of ignorant people who were delighted to see the predicament he was in—so much alone that, failing Wing, not one would raise a hand in his behalf. He was quite right about Consul and Minister and the stupendous machinery that would be set in motion to rescue his insignificant self, but there was the setting it in motion. All depended upon Wing.“But where is Wing?” he said half-aloud, and he wrenched his head round to look back along the procession, half-expecting to see the poor fellow aloft in another chair, a prisoner, bound as well.There was a savage growl at his movement, which made the chair sway, andbang! one of the soldiers brought the spear he shouldered heavily against the cane frame, making Stan start and then dart an angry glance at the man.Bang! came the shaft again, and Stan winced once more, but bit his lips with annoyance, for his captors yelled with laughter, and others struck at the chair.They struck in vain now.“Its to make me squirm—to make the foreign devil squirm,” muttered Stan; “but I’m not going to now. I’d die first.”Whether Stan would have gone as far as he mentally asserted is open to question, but he was able to maintain sufficient control over himself to sit fast; not even flinching when, after several heavy blows had been given, without result, to the chair, one of the most facetious of the guards—a big, broad-faced, smooth-headed fellow—lowered his spear and gave the young prisoner a prog with it in the back.It hurt, for Stan’s white flannels were thin; but the poke was not given with sufficient force to go through the material, and further manifestations of the kind were put a stop to by a fierce shout from the captain, though the men all joined in a hearty laugh.“Brutes!” muttered Stan; and he sat forward, sweeping the country before him, as he devoted himself to wondering what had become of Wing.It was evident that he had not been made a prisoner, for he was nowhere to be seen; and now, as the chair went on, jig, jog—jig, jog, Stan’s brain was agitated by the terrible thought that his poor attendant might have been struck down badly wounded, if not killed, in the sharp struggle, for he had no reason to hope that he had escaped.“If I could only ask!” thought Stan. But he could not. He had picked up a few words and sentences since he had been in the country, but felt very doubtful about making himself understood; while, when he did at last make up his mind for the effort, and leant forward to venture a question to one of his bearers, all he elicited was a derisive burst of laughter, interspersed with mocking imitations of his attempts at the Chinese tongue.“Brutes!” he muttered again; and he rode on in silence for some time, till his anxiety to know more of Wing’s fate proved too much for him, and this time he appealed to the soldier who had used his spear.But the only reply was a menacing gesture, accompanied by a scowl, for the man had not forgiven him for being the cause of a sharp reproof from the captain, though it is doubtful whether Stan could have made himself understood.Fortunately for the prisoner, the pain he suffered from his blows and bonds grew more bearable as the procession jogged slowly on; for the sun was hot, pauses had to be made from time to time to exchange bearers, and nobody seemed to be in the slightest hurry. The result was that after a couple of hours’ tramp the great gate-tower seemed to be nearly as far off as ever, and Stan had sunk into a gloomy state of thinking, in which he divided his time between determining to make the best of things and forcing himself to take as much notice as he could of the devious track they followed through the rice-fields, whose beautiful, tender green seemed to refresh the poor fellow’s weary eyes.“Yes,” he said to himself, “I may be able to escape, and I might do worse than make straight for the farmhouse. The people there are friendly, and I could reckon upon their helping me to the river and some boat. Once in a boat with some provisions, I could float down to thehongeasily enough, even if it took days or a week or two because of my being forced to hide in the reeds by day and only go on by night. But why go to the farm first when, if I could get to the river from the town, I could start on at once? I shall see,” he muttered; “and there can be no harm in noticing the country along here. It might be useful to know. But I wonder what has become of poor old Wing.”He sat on all through the heat of the day, drooping as well as wondering, but growing more low-spirited as he swayed forward, jog, jog, jog, jog, in wearisome fashion, and having hard work at times to sit erect. And but for a couple of halts that were made for the men to rest and smoke as they lay about in the thick grass at the edge of some paddy-field, he would have sunk forward as far as his bonds allowed and fallen into the stupor of exhaustion.After the last halt, which was greatly prolonged, the way led along a much more beaten road; and now the great gate seemed to have loomed up with wonderful suddenness through the hot haze of the Asiatic afternoon. The sight of the huge building and the walls seemed to give the prisoner more energy, making him gaze excitedly at what he could see of the dwarf buildings beyond the encompassing walls, and wonder where the prison would be situated that was to be his halting-place.He now recalled, too, the tramp through the darkness of the early morning with Wing, the way up to the sleeping guards from inside, and the narrow escape from being taken when the great gate was approached.It now seemed certain to the lad that they must, after all, have been seen by some one of the guards, and quietly pursued and trapped at the farm; and after settling this in his own mind, he turned once more as he swayed along on his bearers’ shoulders to wonder where he would be imprisoned, questioning himself as to what sort of a place it would be—whether very strong, high up in a tower, or low down in a dungeon. Where?“If poor old Wing were only here!” he groaned to himself as they approached and passed under the gate. “We could perhaps escape together. But he must have been killed.—Oh, if I only knew where they are going to put me!”His head was feverish from his hot and weary ride, which was fast bringing on a strange delirium which made him feel as if it were only a dream after all.Then it was no dream. Everything was wakeful and a fact, for he knew where he was to be imprisoned, the bearers halting and setting down his chair at the beetle-browed entrance of what proved to be the great guard-room of the gateway tower.
Stan had the stout old tea-farmer who owned the place to thank for the rescue from his extremely awkward position. For, making tremendous use of his tongue, in words which, if interpreted, undoubtedly would have proved to mean, “Let the lad get up, you brutes; can’t you see that you are nearly stifling him?” the farmer supplemented his fierce verbal abuse with blows and thrusts which, in spite of being armed, the invaders made no attempt to resist. They gave way good-humouredly enough, evidently being quite satisfied with their capture; and after taking the precaution to station a spearman at each door and window, they allowed Stan to rise, and then bound him hand and foot to the framework of a cane chair, which they planted full in sight in the middle of the room, before crowding to the well-spread table and making a raid upon the food.
This evoked another torrent of abuse, in which the farmer was stoutly aided by two sturdy young fellows—apparently his sons—his fat wife, and a couple of men.
The farmer seemed to be blessed with a grand vocabulary, and to be well skilled in giving volleys of abuse; but he might have spared his breath for all the effect his words had upon Stan’s captors. They listened calmly enough, and as the boy looked on it seemed to him that all the bullying did was to give the rough party of soldiers an excellent appetite. In fact, the more the farmer raved the more they ate and gave orders for the big teapot to be filled; while, when the farmer ceased shouting, the visitors ceased eating and took out their pipes to a man.
A few minutes later the table had been cleared by the tea-farmer’s people, and a couple of the biggest soldiers rose at an order from their leader, seized the chair by its two sides, and then heaved together, lifting it on high and dropping it upon the table, where Stan had the misery of finding himself the observed of all observers; being treated as a newly captured foreign devil planted there for inspection, every man staring hard after precisely the stupid, open-mouthed fashion of some of our own country louts.
Now and then a remark would be passed by some smoker which brought the angry blood to the lad’s cheeks; for, though not to be exactly interpreted, its meaning was evidently derisive, and afforded amusement to the lookers-on at Stan’s expense.
“Cowardly brutes!” he muttered; and that was the only satisfaction he could get, save that of indulging in hopes that Wing was well on his way to the big city, where he would be sure to get into communication with some one or other of the principal traders, and from them obtain an audience with the chief mandarin, who, as a Government official, would feel himself bound to interfere on behalf of the young Englishman who had been seized.
And so a couple of hours dragged slowly along, at the end of which time the prisoner began to come to the conclusion that he had allowed Wing time to get to the river city, and that when he had patiently waited another two hours Wing would have fulfilled his mission and be on his way back with some of the mandarin’s guards.
But, to his dismay, Stan found that he was not to wait there till Wing returned; for all at once the man in command of the rough soldiery growled out an order, which resulted in a clumsy tumbling together of the party and the production of two very large, thick bamboo poles.
These were laid right in front of the farmhouse, and then the chair was seized and lifted down, to be carried out to where the bamboos lay, these being passed between the legs and there lashed.
“Am I to be turned into a Guy Fawkes?” muttered Stan angrily, as he gave himself a wrench in his seat to try and loosen his bandages.
But the result was vile. The captain of the party uttered a furious growl and made-believe to draw his sword, while a couple of his men seized the prisoner, holding him down fast, and a third dropped upon his knees and proceeded to tighten the thongs with such savage violence that the pain turned the lad faint, making him hang back quite lax, with the great drops of perspiration gathering on his forehead.
It was while everything seemed to be sailing round him that he became conscious of a peculiar, shaking motion which sharpened the pain he suffered. But the sickening sensation passed off, and he became fully conscious, to his great disgust, that he was being made the principal figure—carried shoulder-high as he was—in a triumphal procession on its way, so far as he could judge, back towards the great gate, which he could dimly see towering up in the distance.
They were right out in the country, with rice-fields and plantations in all directions, so that the inhabitants were scarce; but the people of the farm closed up as near as his captors would allow, and as they tramped slowly along, Stan from his elevated, swaying perch could see men at a distance throwing down the tools with which they were working, and trotting along with their tails bobbing between their shoulders, some to overtake, others to meet, and all to join in the procession.
“Why, they treat it as if it were some show—the wretches!” said Stan to himself. “Ugh! How I should like to give it to some of them! Grinning at me! Yes, actually grinning at me! Why, I believe they look upon me as a newly caught foreign devil, and they’re following to see me executed, or—Oh, surely they won’t do that!”
A sudden thought had flashed across his brain—an echo or reflection of something he had read or seen in connection with some poor wretch being kept as a captive by the Chinese and exhibited in a great bamboo cage.
The first effect of the thought was to send a shiver through him, chilling him to the bone; the following minute a sensation of heat made him flush to the temples, and he ground his teeth.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “they’d better! No, they daren’t. They’re pig-headed enough, but they must know that I’m an Englishman—well, an English boy, then,” he added correctively. “Oh, they daren’t! I’m only my father’s son—plain Stanley Lynn—but as soon as they knew at headquarters they’d send a gunboat to demand me; and—of course—yes, it’s a fine thing to be a British subject, for even if I am only a boy, our English Minister wouldn’t have a hair of my head injured—if he could help it.”
Stan thought this addition to his musings in a very different spirit to that which had preceded it. One minute he was proud and elated at the idea that he was an Englishman, with a general touch-me-if-you-dare sort of sensation making his eyes flash and sparkle and his cheeks glow; the next he was fully awake to the fact that he was a tightly bound prisoner, having a most abominable ride to some cage, alone and helpless among an inimical race of ignorant people who were delighted to see the predicament he was in—so much alone that, failing Wing, not one would raise a hand in his behalf. He was quite right about Consul and Minister and the stupendous machinery that would be set in motion to rescue his insignificant self, but there was the setting it in motion. All depended upon Wing.
“But where is Wing?” he said half-aloud, and he wrenched his head round to look back along the procession, half-expecting to see the poor fellow aloft in another chair, a prisoner, bound as well.
There was a savage growl at his movement, which made the chair sway, andbang! one of the soldiers brought the spear he shouldered heavily against the cane frame, making Stan start and then dart an angry glance at the man.
Bang! came the shaft again, and Stan winced once more, but bit his lips with annoyance, for his captors yelled with laughter, and others struck at the chair.
They struck in vain now.
“Its to make me squirm—to make the foreign devil squirm,” muttered Stan; “but I’m not going to now. I’d die first.”
Whether Stan would have gone as far as he mentally asserted is open to question, but he was able to maintain sufficient control over himself to sit fast; not even flinching when, after several heavy blows had been given, without result, to the chair, one of the most facetious of the guards—a big, broad-faced, smooth-headed fellow—lowered his spear and gave the young prisoner a prog with it in the back.
It hurt, for Stan’s white flannels were thin; but the poke was not given with sufficient force to go through the material, and further manifestations of the kind were put a stop to by a fierce shout from the captain, though the men all joined in a hearty laugh.
“Brutes!” muttered Stan; and he sat forward, sweeping the country before him, as he devoted himself to wondering what had become of Wing.
It was evident that he had not been made a prisoner, for he was nowhere to be seen; and now, as the chair went on, jig, jog—jig, jog, Stan’s brain was agitated by the terrible thought that his poor attendant might have been struck down badly wounded, if not killed, in the sharp struggle, for he had no reason to hope that he had escaped.
“If I could only ask!” thought Stan. But he could not. He had picked up a few words and sentences since he had been in the country, but felt very doubtful about making himself understood; while, when he did at last make up his mind for the effort, and leant forward to venture a question to one of his bearers, all he elicited was a derisive burst of laughter, interspersed with mocking imitations of his attempts at the Chinese tongue.
“Brutes!” he muttered again; and he rode on in silence for some time, till his anxiety to know more of Wing’s fate proved too much for him, and this time he appealed to the soldier who had used his spear.
But the only reply was a menacing gesture, accompanied by a scowl, for the man had not forgiven him for being the cause of a sharp reproof from the captain, though it is doubtful whether Stan could have made himself understood.
Fortunately for the prisoner, the pain he suffered from his blows and bonds grew more bearable as the procession jogged slowly on; for the sun was hot, pauses had to be made from time to time to exchange bearers, and nobody seemed to be in the slightest hurry. The result was that after a couple of hours’ tramp the great gate-tower seemed to be nearly as far off as ever, and Stan had sunk into a gloomy state of thinking, in which he divided his time between determining to make the best of things and forcing himself to take as much notice as he could of the devious track they followed through the rice-fields, whose beautiful, tender green seemed to refresh the poor fellow’s weary eyes.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “I may be able to escape, and I might do worse than make straight for the farmhouse. The people there are friendly, and I could reckon upon their helping me to the river and some boat. Once in a boat with some provisions, I could float down to thehongeasily enough, even if it took days or a week or two because of my being forced to hide in the reeds by day and only go on by night. But why go to the farm first when, if I could get to the river from the town, I could start on at once? I shall see,” he muttered; “and there can be no harm in noticing the country along here. It might be useful to know. But I wonder what has become of poor old Wing.”
He sat on all through the heat of the day, drooping as well as wondering, but growing more low-spirited as he swayed forward, jog, jog, jog, jog, in wearisome fashion, and having hard work at times to sit erect. And but for a couple of halts that were made for the men to rest and smoke as they lay about in the thick grass at the edge of some paddy-field, he would have sunk forward as far as his bonds allowed and fallen into the stupor of exhaustion.
After the last halt, which was greatly prolonged, the way led along a much more beaten road; and now the great gate seemed to have loomed up with wonderful suddenness through the hot haze of the Asiatic afternoon. The sight of the huge building and the walls seemed to give the prisoner more energy, making him gaze excitedly at what he could see of the dwarf buildings beyond the encompassing walls, and wonder where the prison would be situated that was to be his halting-place.
He now recalled, too, the tramp through the darkness of the early morning with Wing, the way up to the sleeping guards from inside, and the narrow escape from being taken when the great gate was approached.
It now seemed certain to the lad that they must, after all, have been seen by some one of the guards, and quietly pursued and trapped at the farm; and after settling this in his own mind, he turned once more as he swayed along on his bearers’ shoulders to wonder where he would be imprisoned, questioning himself as to what sort of a place it would be—whether very strong, high up in a tower, or low down in a dungeon. Where?
“If poor old Wing were only here!” he groaned to himself as they approached and passed under the gate. “We could perhaps escape together. But he must have been killed.—Oh, if I only knew where they are going to put me!”
His head was feverish from his hot and weary ride, which was fast bringing on a strange delirium which made him feel as if it were only a dream after all.
Then it was no dream. Everything was wakeful and a fact, for he knew where he was to be imprisoned, the bearers halting and setting down his chair at the beetle-browed entrance of what proved to be the great guard-room of the gateway tower.
Chapter Eleven.“Tchack! Tchack!”“They’ll give me some tea,” thought Stan as, with head throbbing so that he could not hold it up, he sank down in the place to which he had been led, too much exhausted by all he had gone through to do more than glance round and see that it was literally a cage, whose floor and bars were of thick bamboos, opening upon a kind of yard from which came a sickening odour.That was all he could note in the gloom, feeling only too glad to sink down against one side, which also seemed to be formed of bars. Then his eyes closed and he fell into a kind of stupor, in which the whole of the day’s adventures passed before him, from the earliest start till he staggered into his prison and heard the door banged to and fastened behind him. There it all was again, seeming to be beaten into his head with some great mallet with sickening reiteration, till sleep came after burning hours of misery, and the beating upon his brain ceased in oblivion.Mingled with the thump, thump, thump, thump, as of his troubles being driven into his head so that he should never forget them, he had some consciousness of a door opening and a great red paper lantern appearing through the wall, shining like the moon seen through a thick fog.Then there was a bang as of some heavy pot being placed on the floor, followed by another which splashed over his hand. Some one seemed to be speaking to him in a hoarse, deep, guttural voice, followed by a surly grunt; but he could not rouse himself sufficiently to answer what seemed in his dream-like state to be questions in the Chinese tongue; while directly after there was a tremendously loud rattling, such as might have been produced by a great staff being drawn over bars. Then further rattling, with shouts as if some one yelled the syllables “Ho, yo fi yup, yup, yup!” close by his head, with the effect of producing other sounds full of rage, snarling, squeaking, and squealing, whilebang! bang! bang!—it was as if some great cat, a tiger or leopard, were bounding heavily about its cage.Then came the rattling as of the great staff being drawn across the bars again, a grunt or two, the banging of the heavy door, and silence.It was to Stan as if he had been roused out of his trance-like sleep to hear all this, as the great, ruddy, moon-like lantern burned more hotly into his eyes; and then all was closed in darkness, silence, and oblivion once more.Cock-a-doodle-doo—oo—oo!A long-drawn crow, hoarse and croaky as ever cochin-china fowl uttered after heavily flapping its wings, and Stan was back in Old England, dull, aching, stupidly drowsy, and in a confused way feeling that he was by a farmyard with the window open.But his eyelids did not part, and those of his brain seemed to be quite dark still, for he had not the most remote conception of anything more.And so he lay in a hutched-up, awkward position, with the back of his head against some upright bamboos, without stirring. It was almost dark, but the cool grey of the coming morning was filtering down into a vile, close yard, and spreading slowly in through the bars of a great cage, divided in two by the uprights against which the lad had sunk; and as slowly as the light stole into the great cage, so stole in the prisoner’s power to think.At last it began to seem—it can be called nothing else—that something was fidgeting his hair about. At first there was a gentle touch or two as if it were parted, and then something tickled close up to the crown, and Stan gave his head a twitch, but he did not open his eyes.The tickling sensation ceased, however, and he was slowly sinking back into oblivion, when the fidgeting and tickling began again, making him jerk his head.Again the fidgeting feeling passed off, and he was nearly unconscious once more, when he was aroused, and this time he opened his eyes wonderingly, to grasp some notion of there being a softly diffused and faint light gradually coming down in a sloping way through thick bars; and then there was the tickling, and the stirring of his hair.Wakefulness and reason were slowly asserting themselves now, making the lad turn his head slightly on one side and try to look up.He did so in a dreamy kind of belief that he was somewhere in a place with a huge spider, one far bigger than he had ever imagined before; that it was hanging from the ceiling; that it kept on lowering its legs till they were near enough to touch his head; and that then it began to softly stir his hair.So Stan, after screwing his head sideways, raised one eye to the fullest extent and looked wonderingly up for that great spider. But he did not see it, for the simple reason that the spider was not there.But he saw something else, which brought his full senses back in an instant, making him utter a hoarse cry, and, scrambling up, bound right across to the other side of the great bamboo cage into which he had been thrust.It was sufficiently startling, and must have had a similar effect upon one older and sturdier than he.For as he brought his eye to bear, there, just above his scalp, was suspended what at the first glance through the dim light seemed to be the head and neck of a large snake, softly dancing up and down before descending to touch his hair. But that was only his first idea, for the second glance was sufficient to make him grasp the fact that it was no snake, but a long, thin-fingered hand with quivering, pliable fingers, smooth below but hairy at the back, and at the end of a very long, thin, hairy arm which had been thrust between two upright bamboos.It was only momentary, for as Stan uttered his hoarse cry the hand darted out of sight as rapidly as if it had been made of india-rubber, to be followed by the sound of a bump as if its owner had made a bound across the part of the divided cage in which Stan now stood with every nerve quivering, and his brain actively at work bringing back the incidents of the previous day.“Another prisoner,” thought Stan, and he shuddered with horror, for slight as was the glance he had obtained, it was enough to raise up plenty of horrors. The hand and arm were frightfully attenuated, and he felt that if this were a fellow-prisoner, the poor creature must have suffered the most terrible starvation to bring him to such a state. He was a prisoner too, and so horrible were his feelings for the next few moments that the confusion and semi-delirium of the previous night threatened to return.But after he had rested, his thoughts grew calmer again in the silence and the soft grey light.He was a prisoner, but an English prisoner, he felt, and the Chinese guard would not dare to injure him.He gazed rather wildly at the place from which he had leaped, to see upright bamboos very close together, but with space enough between for a very thin hand and arm to be thrust through; and now the disposition to speak to one who must, whoever he was, be a fellow-sufferer came uppermost.But he did not speak; his thoughts took another direction, and he mastered his position.He was, in fact, in a great cage—such a one as might have been used by a keeper of wild beasts for the dwelling of some animal.The floor was, as before stated, composed of bamboo bars similar to those which formed the front; and as the light broadened slightly, Stan could just make out that there was a light wall only a few feet away, and that the wall was continued upward some ten or a dozen feet.Turning his eyes to the spot from which he had leaped, Stan swept the open division again, noting the while that all was perfectly still. But he could see nothing, till all at once he fancied that he detected the tip of one of the thin fingers again; but at the slightest movement he made, the finger, if it had been there, was withdrawn.It was impossible to help a shuddering sensation creeping through him, for there was something strangely uncanny about that hand seen in the dim twilight; and the thought of being so close a fellow-prisoner of so weird a personage grew more and more repellent as the utter silence continued.But there was one satisfactory thing to make matters more bearable, and that was the fact that the light was steadily increasing; and as, after trying hard to penetrate the mysterious screen, Stan once more looked about his prison, and above all examined the doorway through which he had been thrust, he caught sight of two clumsy-looking pots, which, though the produce of the land which gave us porcelain, were of such rough, coarse earthenware that it would have been considered too rough for flower-pots at home.But the prisoner’s throat felt parched and his lips hot and cracked, while a rapid inspection proved to him that one of the vessels contained water.It was no time for being nice. Obeying the natural craving, Stan sank upon his knees, raised the pot with both hands, and the next minute he was drinking deeply of the cool, grateful fluid, which trickled down with a sensation that was delightful, and he had drunk long and deeply before the questioning thought came:“Is it clean?”He set the pot down again close to the wall, and shuddered slightly, for the dank, cool morning air was distinctly tainted with a horrible odour which he believed came from the yard.Putting all suggestive thoughts from him, he turned his attention to the other pot, and saw that a couple of sticks rose above one side; and to test whether his surmise was correct, he took them both in hand, raised them towards the faint light, and found that he had judged rightly, for he brought up a lump of boiled rice adhering to the chopsticks, which he dropped suddenly on hearing a faint noise to his left.There was no doubt about the cause; for there, looking more weird and strange than at first, was the limb which had first startled him, with the long, thin hand outstretched, and the fingers twitching in a most unmistakable fashion.A sense of relief came over Stan now, for he saw at once that this was not the half-mummified hand of some starving prisoner, but that of a large ape; and without hesitation the lad stooped down again, seized the chopsticks, and scooping up with them as much of the wet rice as would stay on, he stepped across to the extended hand, which closed round the food on the instant and disappeared between the bars.Tchack! came in a low, quick utterance, followed by other sounds which plainly indicated what was becoming of the rice.“I can’t eat that stuff,” thought Stan; and visions of one of his customary breakfasts floated before his eyes, in company with wondering ideas about how long it would be before any one came and he would have an opportunity to appeal or order the man to put him in communication with some one in authority.“It’s out of ignorance,” he said to himself. “They dare not keep me here.”Tchack! came again, this time in quite a cheerful tone, and Stan’s thoughts were again diverted. His face crinkled into a smile, for he felt that this was a fellow-prisoner with whom he could make friends at once; and without hesitation he dug out some more rice with the chopsticks, and dabbed the lump into the once more extended hand.“Is it good, old chap?” he said in a friendly tone; and for response came:Tchacker!“Monkey pidgin—eh?” said Stan as the hand disappeared, leaving some wet grains sticking to the bamboo bars, a fact which resulted in another hand appearing on the prisoner’s side and the attenuated fingers cleaning off every grain with wonderful celerity before it disappeared.“Let’s see what you’re like,” said Stan, putting his face to the bars, to find that there was light enough now to show him a similar division to his own, with a dumpy, solidly built monkey squatting down on the far side, nursing the handful of rice against its broad chest, and picking it up rapidly grain by grain.As Stan looked through, the creature raised its head, which seemed joined without neck to its chest, and displayed a pair of keen-looking, very human eyes, peering at him from beneath their straight, overhanging brows; and as they twinkled brightly, there was a third flash from a double set of very white teeth, which were displayed in a grin.Then the eating went on as if there were not a moment to lose, till Stan fell back half-startled, for as the last white grain disappeared behind the thin, tightly drawn lips, the animal rose upon a pair of short, crooked legs, sprang at the bars, to hold on with its feet, and once more a long, thin, spidery arm and hand came through.“Hungry—eh?” said Stan, half-annoyed with himself for his display of dread.Tchack! was the reply, and the fingers curved upward in so suggestive a way that Stan raised the pot and poured into the palm as much as it would hold.In went the hand again, and Stan stood holding the pot against his breast, listening to the sound made by the monkey eating.The natural result was that the odour given off by the wet rice rose to the prisoner’s nostrils; and it was not enticing, for it was not unlike that of wet clay. But the holder knew that it was rice, and that it was eatable, though unappetising, and it awakened in him a feeling of longing consequent upon its being many hours since he had touched food; so, taking up some of the sticky grains on one of the chopsticks, he raised it to his lips, with the result that they curled slightly in disgust.But nature was hungry, and not to be disappointed from any fastidiousness displayed by a pair of lips, nor yet by the disgust of a tongue. It was only the first step that cost, and after making an attempt to eat, Stan went on, to find that the mess, though anything but nice, was satisfying; and he was busy at the second suggestion of a mouthful when he had to draw back sharply, for like a flash the weird hand darted out, grabbed the edge of the pot, and tugged it towards the bars.But Stan’s arm was round the vessel, and his withdrawal carried it away out of the animal’s reach.“Manners!” cried Stan; and he was at once attacked by what seemed to be meant for a volley of reproaches, in tones which somehow seemed familiar and connected with the troubles of the past night, especially as they were accompanied by sounds caused by the animal bounding backwards and forwards, hurling itself from the division bars to those which faced the yard, tillbang! bang! bang! came a tremendous beating against the door, followed by one angry roar of Chinese adjurations.Wow! came in a piteous tone from beyond the bars, as the noise outside ceased; and directly after the hand was thrust out, palm upwards, and the fingers twitching.Stan paid no heed for a few moments, but stood waiting for the door to be opened, ready to attack his jailer, whoever he might be, with such Chinese as he knew; but all remained silent, and a feeling of angry indignation swept over the lad, enraged now as the knowledge of his position flashed through him.“Insolent brutes!” he said half-aloud. “I’m a foreign devil, am I? And I’m to be shut up in the next cage to a great monkey, am I? What do you mean? To make a show of me? Oh, it’s unbearable!”Tchack!“You think so too, do you?” cried Stan aloud.Tchacker!“You think it’s worse? Well done. You’re a wiser monkey than I thought, then. There, old chap—fellow-prisoner—you shan’t find me a bad friend. Here, peg away!” And half-laughing the while—a laugh full of mocking indignation—Stan thrust the pot down close to the bars. In an instant one long arm was holding it tight against them like a band of bone and muscle, and the other was working to and from it like an animated spoon.“Poor brute!” said Stan softly, and he raised one hand with extended index-finger to touch the hook-like arm.Ur-r-r-r-r! came in a savage, malicious snarl, and the free hand came down spang upon his wrist, seizing it with startling violence, and snatching it towards the bars, against which it struck heavily.There was a momentary struggle, during which in imagination the lad saw his fingers being crushed between two trap-like jaws, and then he was free.“Why, you savage beast!” he cried fiercely.Tchack! said the monkey; and the hand was going and coming calmly enough now, and almost without a sound.“Humph!” grunted Stan. “My fault, I suppose. Thought I was going to take away its food;” and he stood rubbing his wrist gently where it had been bruised against the bamboo bar, and watched the monkey’s hands till the last grain had been cleared out of the pot, which was released and allowed to fall over upon its side.“Finished?” said Stan, good-humouredly now, for the pain had passed away.Tchack!The sound—cry, ejaculation, whatever it may be called—was evidently a reply, and as it was uttered the hand came out towards the prisoner once more.“Why, you hungry brute!” said Stan. “No more. All gone,” he cried; and he stooped down to take away the pot.It was incautiously done, and in an instant the animal’s fingers had closed round his hand tightly. For the moment Stan was about to obey his natural instinct and tear his hand away, but it struck him that the grasp was not meant inimically, and that even if it were he must be the stronger of the two, and could prevent his strange adversary from dragging his arm sufficiently through the bars to make use of its teeth. So he stood fast, and found that, in place of tearing hard and trying to drag the hand it had secured through the bars, it was contenting itself with pressing the hand firmly and nestling its own fingers within his grasp, as if the sensation were satisfactory and it enjoyed the proximity of a companion.“Want to be friends?” said the lad quietly.Snar-r-r-r-r! went the animal savagely, snatching its hand away, and with one bound leaping to the other side of its cage.The reason was made plain the next moment. Its hearing was the keener, and it first heard approaching footsteps.The next minute great bars were being rattled down from the door, which was thrown open, and three rough-looking Chinese soldiers entered; the first going straight to the barred division and drawing the shaft of his spear cleverly along the bamboos before thrusting the butt through and making prods and savage thrusts with it at the wretched monkey, which shrieked and chattered and bounded about, with noise and turmoil which brought back vividly now the strange sounds Stan seemed to have dreamed in the confused and feverish wanderings of the night.
“They’ll give me some tea,” thought Stan as, with head throbbing so that he could not hold it up, he sank down in the place to which he had been led, too much exhausted by all he had gone through to do more than glance round and see that it was literally a cage, whose floor and bars were of thick bamboos, opening upon a kind of yard from which came a sickening odour.
That was all he could note in the gloom, feeling only too glad to sink down against one side, which also seemed to be formed of bars. Then his eyes closed and he fell into a kind of stupor, in which the whole of the day’s adventures passed before him, from the earliest start till he staggered into his prison and heard the door banged to and fastened behind him. There it all was again, seeming to be beaten into his head with some great mallet with sickening reiteration, till sleep came after burning hours of misery, and the beating upon his brain ceased in oblivion.
Mingled with the thump, thump, thump, thump, as of his troubles being driven into his head so that he should never forget them, he had some consciousness of a door opening and a great red paper lantern appearing through the wall, shining like the moon seen through a thick fog.
Then there was a bang as of some heavy pot being placed on the floor, followed by another which splashed over his hand. Some one seemed to be speaking to him in a hoarse, deep, guttural voice, followed by a surly grunt; but he could not rouse himself sufficiently to answer what seemed in his dream-like state to be questions in the Chinese tongue; while directly after there was a tremendously loud rattling, such as might have been produced by a great staff being drawn over bars. Then further rattling, with shouts as if some one yelled the syllables “Ho, yo fi yup, yup, yup!” close by his head, with the effect of producing other sounds full of rage, snarling, squeaking, and squealing, whilebang! bang! bang!—it was as if some great cat, a tiger or leopard, were bounding heavily about its cage.
Then came the rattling as of the great staff being drawn across the bars again, a grunt or two, the banging of the heavy door, and silence.
It was to Stan as if he had been roused out of his trance-like sleep to hear all this, as the great, ruddy, moon-like lantern burned more hotly into his eyes; and then all was closed in darkness, silence, and oblivion once more.
Cock-a-doodle-doo—oo—oo!
A long-drawn crow, hoarse and croaky as ever cochin-china fowl uttered after heavily flapping its wings, and Stan was back in Old England, dull, aching, stupidly drowsy, and in a confused way feeling that he was by a farmyard with the window open.
But his eyelids did not part, and those of his brain seemed to be quite dark still, for he had not the most remote conception of anything more.
And so he lay in a hutched-up, awkward position, with the back of his head against some upright bamboos, without stirring. It was almost dark, but the cool grey of the coming morning was filtering down into a vile, close yard, and spreading slowly in through the bars of a great cage, divided in two by the uprights against which the lad had sunk; and as slowly as the light stole into the great cage, so stole in the prisoner’s power to think.
At last it began to seem—it can be called nothing else—that something was fidgeting his hair about. At first there was a gentle touch or two as if it were parted, and then something tickled close up to the crown, and Stan gave his head a twitch, but he did not open his eyes.
The tickling sensation ceased, however, and he was slowly sinking back into oblivion, when the fidgeting and tickling began again, making him jerk his head.
Again the fidgeting feeling passed off, and he was nearly unconscious once more, when he was aroused, and this time he opened his eyes wonderingly, to grasp some notion of there being a softly diffused and faint light gradually coming down in a sloping way through thick bars; and then there was the tickling, and the stirring of his hair.
Wakefulness and reason were slowly asserting themselves now, making the lad turn his head slightly on one side and try to look up.
He did so in a dreamy kind of belief that he was somewhere in a place with a huge spider, one far bigger than he had ever imagined before; that it was hanging from the ceiling; that it kept on lowering its legs till they were near enough to touch his head; and that then it began to softly stir his hair.
So Stan, after screwing his head sideways, raised one eye to the fullest extent and looked wonderingly up for that great spider. But he did not see it, for the simple reason that the spider was not there.
But he saw something else, which brought his full senses back in an instant, making him utter a hoarse cry, and, scrambling up, bound right across to the other side of the great bamboo cage into which he had been thrust.
It was sufficiently startling, and must have had a similar effect upon one older and sturdier than he.
For as he brought his eye to bear, there, just above his scalp, was suspended what at the first glance through the dim light seemed to be the head and neck of a large snake, softly dancing up and down before descending to touch his hair. But that was only his first idea, for the second glance was sufficient to make him grasp the fact that it was no snake, but a long, thin-fingered hand with quivering, pliable fingers, smooth below but hairy at the back, and at the end of a very long, thin, hairy arm which had been thrust between two upright bamboos.
It was only momentary, for as Stan uttered his hoarse cry the hand darted out of sight as rapidly as if it had been made of india-rubber, to be followed by the sound of a bump as if its owner had made a bound across the part of the divided cage in which Stan now stood with every nerve quivering, and his brain actively at work bringing back the incidents of the previous day.
“Another prisoner,” thought Stan, and he shuddered with horror, for slight as was the glance he had obtained, it was enough to raise up plenty of horrors. The hand and arm were frightfully attenuated, and he felt that if this were a fellow-prisoner, the poor creature must have suffered the most terrible starvation to bring him to such a state. He was a prisoner too, and so horrible were his feelings for the next few moments that the confusion and semi-delirium of the previous night threatened to return.
But after he had rested, his thoughts grew calmer again in the silence and the soft grey light.
He was a prisoner, but an English prisoner, he felt, and the Chinese guard would not dare to injure him.
He gazed rather wildly at the place from which he had leaped, to see upright bamboos very close together, but with space enough between for a very thin hand and arm to be thrust through; and now the disposition to speak to one who must, whoever he was, be a fellow-sufferer came uppermost.
But he did not speak; his thoughts took another direction, and he mastered his position.
He was, in fact, in a great cage—such a one as might have been used by a keeper of wild beasts for the dwelling of some animal.
The floor was, as before stated, composed of bamboo bars similar to those which formed the front; and as the light broadened slightly, Stan could just make out that there was a light wall only a few feet away, and that the wall was continued upward some ten or a dozen feet.
Turning his eyes to the spot from which he had leaped, Stan swept the open division again, noting the while that all was perfectly still. But he could see nothing, till all at once he fancied that he detected the tip of one of the thin fingers again; but at the slightest movement he made, the finger, if it had been there, was withdrawn.
It was impossible to help a shuddering sensation creeping through him, for there was something strangely uncanny about that hand seen in the dim twilight; and the thought of being so close a fellow-prisoner of so weird a personage grew more and more repellent as the utter silence continued.
But there was one satisfactory thing to make matters more bearable, and that was the fact that the light was steadily increasing; and as, after trying hard to penetrate the mysterious screen, Stan once more looked about his prison, and above all examined the doorway through which he had been thrust, he caught sight of two clumsy-looking pots, which, though the produce of the land which gave us porcelain, were of such rough, coarse earthenware that it would have been considered too rough for flower-pots at home.
But the prisoner’s throat felt parched and his lips hot and cracked, while a rapid inspection proved to him that one of the vessels contained water.
It was no time for being nice. Obeying the natural craving, Stan sank upon his knees, raised the pot with both hands, and the next minute he was drinking deeply of the cool, grateful fluid, which trickled down with a sensation that was delightful, and he had drunk long and deeply before the questioning thought came:
“Is it clean?”
He set the pot down again close to the wall, and shuddered slightly, for the dank, cool morning air was distinctly tainted with a horrible odour which he believed came from the yard.
Putting all suggestive thoughts from him, he turned his attention to the other pot, and saw that a couple of sticks rose above one side; and to test whether his surmise was correct, he took them both in hand, raised them towards the faint light, and found that he had judged rightly, for he brought up a lump of boiled rice adhering to the chopsticks, which he dropped suddenly on hearing a faint noise to his left.
There was no doubt about the cause; for there, looking more weird and strange than at first, was the limb which had first startled him, with the long, thin hand outstretched, and the fingers twitching in a most unmistakable fashion.
A sense of relief came over Stan now, for he saw at once that this was not the half-mummified hand of some starving prisoner, but that of a large ape; and without hesitation the lad stooped down again, seized the chopsticks, and scooping up with them as much of the wet rice as would stay on, he stepped across to the extended hand, which closed round the food on the instant and disappeared between the bars.
Tchack! came in a low, quick utterance, followed by other sounds which plainly indicated what was becoming of the rice.
“I can’t eat that stuff,” thought Stan; and visions of one of his customary breakfasts floated before his eyes, in company with wondering ideas about how long it would be before any one came and he would have an opportunity to appeal or order the man to put him in communication with some one in authority.
“It’s out of ignorance,” he said to himself. “They dare not keep me here.”
Tchack! came again, this time in quite a cheerful tone, and Stan’s thoughts were again diverted. His face crinkled into a smile, for he felt that this was a fellow-prisoner with whom he could make friends at once; and without hesitation he dug out some more rice with the chopsticks, and dabbed the lump into the once more extended hand.
“Is it good, old chap?” he said in a friendly tone; and for response came:
Tchacker!
“Monkey pidgin—eh?” said Stan as the hand disappeared, leaving some wet grains sticking to the bamboo bars, a fact which resulted in another hand appearing on the prisoner’s side and the attenuated fingers cleaning off every grain with wonderful celerity before it disappeared.
“Let’s see what you’re like,” said Stan, putting his face to the bars, to find that there was light enough now to show him a similar division to his own, with a dumpy, solidly built monkey squatting down on the far side, nursing the handful of rice against its broad chest, and picking it up rapidly grain by grain.
As Stan looked through, the creature raised its head, which seemed joined without neck to its chest, and displayed a pair of keen-looking, very human eyes, peering at him from beneath their straight, overhanging brows; and as they twinkled brightly, there was a third flash from a double set of very white teeth, which were displayed in a grin.
Then the eating went on as if there were not a moment to lose, till Stan fell back half-startled, for as the last white grain disappeared behind the thin, tightly drawn lips, the animal rose upon a pair of short, crooked legs, sprang at the bars, to hold on with its feet, and once more a long, thin, spidery arm and hand came through.
“Hungry—eh?” said Stan, half-annoyed with himself for his display of dread.
Tchack! was the reply, and the fingers curved upward in so suggestive a way that Stan raised the pot and poured into the palm as much as it would hold.
In went the hand again, and Stan stood holding the pot against his breast, listening to the sound made by the monkey eating.
The natural result was that the odour given off by the wet rice rose to the prisoner’s nostrils; and it was not enticing, for it was not unlike that of wet clay. But the holder knew that it was rice, and that it was eatable, though unappetising, and it awakened in him a feeling of longing consequent upon its being many hours since he had touched food; so, taking up some of the sticky grains on one of the chopsticks, he raised it to his lips, with the result that they curled slightly in disgust.
But nature was hungry, and not to be disappointed from any fastidiousness displayed by a pair of lips, nor yet by the disgust of a tongue. It was only the first step that cost, and after making an attempt to eat, Stan went on, to find that the mess, though anything but nice, was satisfying; and he was busy at the second suggestion of a mouthful when he had to draw back sharply, for like a flash the weird hand darted out, grabbed the edge of the pot, and tugged it towards the bars.
But Stan’s arm was round the vessel, and his withdrawal carried it away out of the animal’s reach.
“Manners!” cried Stan; and he was at once attacked by what seemed to be meant for a volley of reproaches, in tones which somehow seemed familiar and connected with the troubles of the past night, especially as they were accompanied by sounds caused by the animal bounding backwards and forwards, hurling itself from the division bars to those which faced the yard, tillbang! bang! bang! came a tremendous beating against the door, followed by one angry roar of Chinese adjurations.
Wow! came in a piteous tone from beyond the bars, as the noise outside ceased; and directly after the hand was thrust out, palm upwards, and the fingers twitching.
Stan paid no heed for a few moments, but stood waiting for the door to be opened, ready to attack his jailer, whoever he might be, with such Chinese as he knew; but all remained silent, and a feeling of angry indignation swept over the lad, enraged now as the knowledge of his position flashed through him.
“Insolent brutes!” he said half-aloud. “I’m a foreign devil, am I? And I’m to be shut up in the next cage to a great monkey, am I? What do you mean? To make a show of me? Oh, it’s unbearable!”
Tchack!
“You think so too, do you?” cried Stan aloud.
Tchacker!
“You think it’s worse? Well done. You’re a wiser monkey than I thought, then. There, old chap—fellow-prisoner—you shan’t find me a bad friend. Here, peg away!” And half-laughing the while—a laugh full of mocking indignation—Stan thrust the pot down close to the bars. In an instant one long arm was holding it tight against them like a band of bone and muscle, and the other was working to and from it like an animated spoon.
“Poor brute!” said Stan softly, and he raised one hand with extended index-finger to touch the hook-like arm.
Ur-r-r-r-r! came in a savage, malicious snarl, and the free hand came down spang upon his wrist, seizing it with startling violence, and snatching it towards the bars, against which it struck heavily.
There was a momentary struggle, during which in imagination the lad saw his fingers being crushed between two trap-like jaws, and then he was free.
“Why, you savage beast!” he cried fiercely.
Tchack! said the monkey; and the hand was going and coming calmly enough now, and almost without a sound.
“Humph!” grunted Stan. “My fault, I suppose. Thought I was going to take away its food;” and he stood rubbing his wrist gently where it had been bruised against the bamboo bar, and watched the monkey’s hands till the last grain had been cleared out of the pot, which was released and allowed to fall over upon its side.
“Finished?” said Stan, good-humouredly now, for the pain had passed away.
Tchack!
The sound—cry, ejaculation, whatever it may be called—was evidently a reply, and as it was uttered the hand came out towards the prisoner once more.
“Why, you hungry brute!” said Stan. “No more. All gone,” he cried; and he stooped down to take away the pot.
It was incautiously done, and in an instant the animal’s fingers had closed round his hand tightly. For the moment Stan was about to obey his natural instinct and tear his hand away, but it struck him that the grasp was not meant inimically, and that even if it were he must be the stronger of the two, and could prevent his strange adversary from dragging his arm sufficiently through the bars to make use of its teeth. So he stood fast, and found that, in place of tearing hard and trying to drag the hand it had secured through the bars, it was contenting itself with pressing the hand firmly and nestling its own fingers within his grasp, as if the sensation were satisfactory and it enjoyed the proximity of a companion.
“Want to be friends?” said the lad quietly.
Snar-r-r-r-r! went the animal savagely, snatching its hand away, and with one bound leaping to the other side of its cage.
The reason was made plain the next moment. Its hearing was the keener, and it first heard approaching footsteps.
The next minute great bars were being rattled down from the door, which was thrown open, and three rough-looking Chinese soldiers entered; the first going straight to the barred division and drawing the shaft of his spear cleverly along the bamboos before thrusting the butt through and making prods and savage thrusts with it at the wretched monkey, which shrieked and chattered and bounded about, with noise and turmoil which brought back vividly now the strange sounds Stan seemed to have dreamed in the confused and feverish wanderings of the night.