With the pristine dawn, Robert MacLaurin arose from his bed like a large, yellow mountain; for his pajamas--every square yard of them--were of fine Canton silk, the color of the bulbous moon when it reposes low on China's horizon.
Satisfying himself at length that the bedroom had another occupant, he drained the contents of a fat, white water-jug, then tossed the jug upon the incumbent of the bedroom's other bed.
At such times as this critical one, the smiling destiny which held the fate of Peter Moore in the hollow of her precious hand was ever watchful, and the white water-jug caromed from his peaceful figure with no more than an unimportant thud. The jug bounded to the floor and ended its career against the hard wall. Peter Moore sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Dead or alive, Peter?"
"You nearly broke my back."
"Serves you right, old slug-abed! You tucked me in last night with the warning that we pick up the early express for Nanking."
"Quite so," admitted Peter Moore thickly. In the past two days he had managed to set aside altogether four hours for sleep; and he felt that way. He examined his room-mate, but was not surprised at what met his glance.
Bobbie MacLaurin, disregarding the fact that he had not yet shaved, looked as fresh as a rose. His endurance was like that of a range of mountains. His sea-blue eyes were cannily clear, his complexion was transparent and glowing. The ill effects of last night had been absorbed with about as much apparent effort as a gigantic sponge might display in absorbing a dewdrop.
"Chinamen's eyes and Chinamen's knives have been running through my dreams," Peter muttered.
"Cheer up! The pirates are thick above Ichang. We'll both have our bloody necks slit a dozen times before we make Ching-Fu." Bobbie turned from the miniature mirror. His sea-blue eyes glared through a white lake of lather. "Hurry up and shave, you loafer! We'll miss that train."
"I'm not going to shave for six months!"
"Election bet?"
"When your utterly worthless life has been endangered as many times as----"
"What you need is a drink, my lad!"
"When you have evidence that the greatest criminal-at-large wants to have you stuck like a pig----"
MacLaurin swung his big frame about and stared. "You're not serious."
"I am referring to--a Gray Dragon. Ever hear of one?"
The razor in the large, red hand of Bobbie MacLaurin flashed. It came away from his cheek. A broad trickle of crimson spread down the lathered jaw, But he did not curse.
"We must hurry for that train," rumbled his big voice. "We must talk this over. We must hurry, Peter," he said again.
Miss Amy Vost was not in evidence when the two rickshaws rattled up to the platform of the red brick station.
"Perhaps she's waiting for us in the coach, holding seats for us," Peter suggested.
"Just like her," said MacLaurin. "She's a little peach!"
Peter entered the compartment first and scanned the heads. The only tresses in evidence were the long, black, shining ones of a bejeweled Chinese lady. The other passengers were men.
"There will be no tête-à-tête in Soochow," observed Peter Moore to his conscience.
"I'd go to hell for that girl!" declared Bobbie MacLaurin as he sat down at Peter's side. "Now, tell me what you were doing in that Jap rigging. Two years, isn't it, since we were chased out of Panama City by the spigotties?"
"I came over on the Vandalia."
"And didn't go back, I gather."
"She sailed up-river for Soo-chow yesterday. No, I won't go back. Bobbie, I started something on that ship, and I'm on my way to Ching-Fu--and 'way beyond Ching-Fu--to finish it."
"It will be beautifully finished, Peter! Or your name's not Moore."
"There was a girl, a beautiful girl----"
"There usually is," MacLaurin sighed.
Peter gazed bitterly at the scenery flitting evenly past the window: groves of feathery bamboo, flaming mustard fields, exquisite gardens, and graves--graves beyond count.
"Perhaps she is passing through the Inland Sea by now. Bobbie, I wanted her to go home. She was--she was that kind of a girl. She wanted to stay. Bobbie, that girl could have made a man of me! She--she even told me she--liked me!"
"They have a way of doing that," commented Bobbie sadly.
Several miles rolled by before either of the men spoke.
"Why is Miss Vost making the trip to Ching-Fu?"
"You'll have to find that out, Peter. I was too busy letting her know how bright my life has become since she entered it!"
The square, red jaw swung savagely toward Peter. Of a sudden the sea-blue eyes seemed a trifle inflamed. "She's probably going to Ching-Fu on serious business. She's like that. She's not like you!"
"What do you mean?" said Peter.
"You're going to try to break into Len Yang; that's what I mean! Some day, on one of these reckless expeditions of yours, Peter, you're going to run plumb into a long, sharp knife! If I could head you off, I would."
"You can't, Bobbie. My mind is made up."
"Get out of China. Why enter the lion's den? You're too confiding, too trusting, too young. In duty to my conscience, I oughtn't to let you go. But I know you'd walk or fly or swim if I tried to head you off."
