Part 13 (1/2)

The sampan whacked alongside. The big man tossed a small, orange-silk bag to the deck. He climbed the ladder as if he had been used to climbing all his life.

”I don't care for his looks,” remarked Miss Vost, looking up into Peter's face with a curious smile.

”Nor I,” said Bobbie MacLaurin.

The richly dressed stranger vaulted nimbly over the teak-rail, recovered the orange bag, and approached MacLaurin. His head drooped forward momentarily, in recognition of the authority of the blue uniform.

He said in excellent English: ”I desire to engage pa.s.sage to Ching-Fu.”

”This way,” replied the _Hankow's_ captain.

”You seemed to recognize him,” said Miss Vost to Peter, when they had the deck to themselves.

”Perhaps I was mistaken,” replied Peter evasively. He suddenly was aware of Miss Vost's wide-eyed look of concern.

Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She had come up very close to him. Her head moved back, so that her chin was almost on a level with his.

”Mr. Moore,” she said in a low, soft voice, ”I won't ask you any questions. In China, there are many, many things that a woman must not try to understand. But I--I want to tell you that--that I think you are--splendid. It seems so fine, so good of you. I--I can't begin to thank you. My--my feelings prevent it.”

”But--why--what--what----” stammered Peter.

”Oh, Mr. Moore, I know--I know!” Miss Vost proceeded earnestly. ”Like all fine, brave men, you are--you are modest! It--it almost makes me want to cry, to think--to think----”

”But, Miss Vost,” interrupted Peter, gently and gravely, ”you are shooting over my head!”

In the rakish bows of the _Hankow_ arose the clank and clatter of wet anchor-chains. A bell tinkled in the engine-room. The stout fabric of the little steamer shuddered. The yellow water began to slip by them.

On the sh.o.r.e two paG.o.das moved slowly into alignment. The _Hankow_ was moving.

Miss Vost strengthened her gentle hold upon Peter's reluctant arm. Her bright eyes were a trifle blurred. ”Last night, when we met on the bund,” she went on in a small voice, ”I knew immediately--immediately--what you were. A chivalrous gentleman! A man who would shelter and protect any helpless woman he met!”

”That was nice of you,” murmured Peter.

Like Saul of Tarsus, he was beginning to see a bright light.

”And it was true!” Miss Vost plunged on. ”Now--now, you are risking your life--for poor, unworthy little me! Please don't deny it, Mr.

Moore! I only wanted to let you know that I--I understand, and that I am--g-grateful!” Her eyelids fluttered over an unstifled moistness.

”Bobbie _loves_ you,” blurted Peter. ”He'd do anything in the world for you. He told me so. He told me----”

Miss Vost opened her eyes on a look that was hurt and humiliated.

”What?”

”He'd go to h.e.l.l for you!”

”He's an overgrown boy. He doesn't know what he says. That's nonsense,” declared Miss Vost, looking away from Peter. ”I know his type, Mr. Moore. He falls in love with every pretty face; and he falls out again, quite as easily.”

”You don't know Bobbie, the way I do,” said Peter stubbornly.

”I don't have to. I know his kind--a girl in every port.”

”No, no. Not Bobbie!”