Part 1 (2/2)
”Rubbis.h.!.+” the Chief snorted.
The Panama Line man waved a pale hand behind him for absolute silence.
”Want a sh.o.r.e station for a while?”
”Intend to rest up and then look around,” Moore answered.
”You'll be back. Mark my word. The sea and the wireless house is a winning combination. The old cities--new faces--freedom----”
”I'm tired.”
”Pah! You've only begun. When does the _Vandalia_ clear for China?”
”Thursday night.”
”I'll hold your berth open till Thursday noon. Hoping you'd break in a new operator. Queer chap. Gla.s.s eye. 'Member--Thursday noon.”
The frosted door went inward abruptly. The intense blue eyes in the pale face of the man who had resigned closed half way upon encountering the blus.h.i.+ng eavesdropper. The Panama Line operator moved uncertainly toward a vacant chair. Unaware of the curious stares addressed at him Moore went to the outer door. A wave of exquisite nervousness rippled through the silence of the static-room as the door clicked.
When the rumor reached the _Vandalia_, lying in state at her pier, that Peter Moore had resigned, Captain Jones, after bluntly airing his disappointment, advanced the theory to his chief engineer that Sparks had ”taken the East too much to heart. The fangs are in too deep.”
”He will be on hand sailing time,” added the chief engineer, who had been trying to retire from active duty in the China run for eleven years.
But Moore did not come back to the _Vandalia_ for that reason at all.
CHAPTER II
Communication between certain individuals in China and their relatives and friends in Chinatown must, for political and other reasons, be conducted in a secret way. In Shanghai, Moore had made the acquaintance, under somewhat mysterious auspices, of Ching Gow Ong, an important figure in the silk traffic.
Moore, so it was said by those who were in a position to know, had once performed a favor for Ching Gow Ong, of which no one seemed to know the particulars. What was of equal importance, perhaps, was that Ching Gow Ong would have willingly given Moore any gift within his power had Moore been so inclined.
But it appears that Moore was not a seeker after wealth, thereby giving some real basis to the common belief that he possessed that rare thing--a virginal spirit of adventure. He cemented this queer friends.h.i.+p by conveying messages, indited in Chinese script, which he did not read, between Ching Gow Ong and his brother, Lo Ong, officially dead, who conducted a vile-smelling haunt in the bowels of Chinatown.
Peter Moore made his way through the narrowing alleys, proceeded through a maze of blank walls, down a damp stone stairway, and rapped upon a black iron door. It opened instantly, and a long clawlike hand reached forth, accepted the yellow envelope from the operator's hand, and slowly, silently withdrew, the door closing as quickly and as quietly as it had opened.
No words were spoken. His errand done, Peter Moore retraced his steps to the wider and brighter lanes which comprised the Chinatown known to tourists.
He walked slowly, with his head inclined a little to one side, which was a habit he had acquired from the eternal listening into the hard rubber receivers. He had proceeded in this fas.h.i.+on a number of steps up one of the narrow, sloping sidewalks when he felt, rather than perceived, a pair of eyes fastened upon him from a second-story window.
They were the eyes of a young Chinese woman, but he sensed immediately that she was not of the river type. Her fine black hair was arranged in a gorgeous coiffure. Gold ornaments drooped from her ears, and her complexion was liberally sanded with rice powder. Her painted lips wore an expression of malignity.
In the obliquity of the eyes lurked a solemn warning. Then he became aware that she seemed to be struggling, as if she were impeding the movements of some one behind her.
It is safe to say that in his tramps through the winding alleys of Canton, of Peking, of Shanghai, Peter Moore had encountered many Chinese women of her type. There was a sharp vividness to her features which meant the inbreeding of high caste. She was unusual--startling!
She looked into the street furtively, held up a heavily jeweled hand--an imperial order for him to stop--and withdrew. He lounged into the doorway of an ivory shop and waited.
It was quiet in Chinatown, for the time was noon and the section was pursuing its midday habit of calm. The padding figures were becoming a trifle obscure, owing to a cold, pale fog that was drifting up from the bay. In a moment the woman reappeared, examined the street again with hostile eyes, held up a square of rice paper, and slowly folded it.
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