Part 10 (2/2)
”Peter Moore!” gasped Bobbie MacLaurin, and Peter Moore was smothered in log-like arms and the fumes of considerable alcohol.
Extricating himself at length from this monstrous embrace, Peter permitted himself to be held off at arm's length and be warmly and loquaciously admired.
”My old side-kick of the d.a.m.n old _San Felipe_!” announced Bobbie MacLaurin to the small group of somewhat embarra.s.sed sailors. ”The best radio man that G.o.d ever let live! He can hear a radio signal before it's been sent. Can't you, Peter? Boys, take a long look at the only livin' man who can fight his weight in sea serpents; the only livin' man who ever knocked me cold, and got away with it! Boys, take a long, lastin' look, for the pack o' you're goin' out o' that door inside of ten counts! G.o.d bless 'um! Just look at that there j.a.p get-up! Sure as G.o.d made big fish to eat the little fellows, Peter Moore's up to some newfangled deviltry, or I'm a lobster!”
”s.h.!.+” warned Peter Moore, conscious that in China the walls, doors, floors, ceilings, windows, even the bartenders, have ears.
”Out with the lot of you!” barked MacLaurin. ”There's big business afoot to-night. We must be alone. Eh, Peter?”
And Peter was convinced that business could not be talked over to-night. Of one thing only did he wish to be certain.
”You're taking the _Hankow_ up-river to-morrow?”
”That I am, Peter!”
”Then we'll take the express for Nanking to-morrow morning.”
”Aye--aye! Sir!”
”We'll turn in now. Otherwise you'll look like a wreck when Miss Vost sees you.”
”Miss Vost!” exploded MacLaurin. ”When did you see Miss Vost?”
”A little while ago, Bob. Shall we turn in now?”
”Miss Vost is why I'm drunk, Peter,” said Bobbie MacLaurin sadly.
”So she admitted. To-morrow we'll talk her over, and other important matters.”
”As you say, Peter. I'm the brawn, but you're the brains of this team--as always! The bunks are the order.”
When Bobbie MacLaurin's not unmusical snore proceeded from the vast bulk disposed beneath the white bedclothes, Peter Moore again descended to the lobby, let himself into the street, and hailed a rickshaw.
The mist from the Whang-poo had changed to a slanting rain. The bund was a ditch of clay-like mud. Each street light was a halo unto itself.
He lighted a cigarette, suffered the coolie to draw up the clammy oilskin leg-robe to his waist, and dreamily contemplated the quagmire that was Shanghai.
The rickshaw crossed the Soochow-Creek bridge and drew up, dripping, under the porte-cochere of the Astor House Hotel, where a majestic Indian door-tender emerged from the shadows, bearing a large, opened umbrella.
Contrary to her promise Miss Vost was not waiting for his message.
However, she sent back word by the coolie, that she would dress and come down, if he desired her to. Peter pondered a moment. A glimpse of Miss Vost at this time of night meant nothing to him. Or was he hungry for that glimpse? Nonsense!
He dashed off a hasty note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to the room-boy to deliver.
He pictured her sleepy surprise as she opened it, and read:
Bobbie seems much put out. We take morning express to Nanking. Try to make it. We'll have tea, the three of us, at Soochow.
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