Part 2 (1/2)

One day Mr. Ting met Errington in the street as if by chance: in reality he had waylaid him.

”Getting on nicely?” he said.

”First chop,” replied Errington, with a laugh: he had picked up some pidgin English.

”That is good. You have many flends,” said the Chinaman. ”Good flends are a delight in plospelity, and a stay in advessity. Bad flends--but of course you have none. Leinhadt is, of course, no flend of yours.”

”I rather think he is,” said Errington, nettled at once. ”Why do you say that?”

”Well, you may eat with a flend, and talk to a flend, and play cards with flends, at home; but the men you play cards with away from home, they are not often flends.”

”Look here, Mr. Ting, I don't understand what you are driving at. I play cards with Mr. Reinhardt: you seem to know it; have you got anything to say against it? Is he a card-sharper? Has he swindled you or any one else? If he has, you'd better say so, and then I shall know what to do.”

”He has not swindled me, or any one else, that I can prove.”

”Well then,” cried the lad hotly, ”I'll thank you to mind your own business. You bored me with your sermons when I was a kid at school; but I'm no longer a schoolboy, and I tell you flatly I won't be watched and preached at by you, if you were ten times my father's friend. I'm quite able to take care of myself.”

”I could wish nothing better,” said the Chinaman quietly. ”I was your father's flend, and I hope I shall always be yours.”

Errington had already repented of his outburst, and Mr. Ting's dignified reception of it made him feel ashamed of himself.

”Of course you are,” he said. ”I was always a hot-tempered brute; I'm sorry.”

And the two parted on the best of terms.

After about a year, when both Errington and Burroughs had began to get a grip of their work, the former came home from the office one evening, and seeking his chum in the little den they shared, said in a tone of elation--

”I say, old man, I'm getting on. They're going to raise my screw and transfer me to Sui-Fu.

”Under Reinhardt?” asked Burroughs quickly.

”Yes. I shouldn't wonder if he got me the crib. He has to be away a great deal, and though there's a capable comprador, they seem to think a European ought to be on the spot. I wish you were coming too.”

”I should like it. It's a lift for you, Pidge, and I'm glad.”

Errington talked on in his impulsive way about what he would do, and how he would make things hum, while Burroughs listened and said little. He had already made up his mind to go with Errington if possible; scarcely confessing it even to himself, he wanted to keep an eye on his friend when he came directly under the influence of the German; but he did not wish to hint at the possibility of arranging a transfer for himself until he had spoken to his father.

Late that night, when the rest had retired, he went to his father's study.

”Well, Ted, what is it?” said Mr. Burroughs, looking up from some papers.

”I'd like to go up with Pidge if you can manage it, Dad,” replied the boy, coming straight to the point.

”You would, eh? What an excitable fellow he is, Ted! He talked about nothing else at dinner--or hardly anything, and it's all done so pleasantly you can't resent it. Well, you want to go: any particular reason?”

”Well, you see, we've always been together, and ... Dad, why do people dislike Reinhardt?”

”Off at a tangent, aren't you? I think it's a case of 'I do not like thee, Dr. Fell; the reason why I cannot tell.' Some say he's got a brute of a temper behind his pleasant manner, and he's rather fond of cards; but I never heard any definite charge against him.”