Peter Moore's curiosity regarding the motives which were sending Miss Amy Vost into Szechwan, most deplorable, most poverty-stricken of provinces, was satisfied before the Hankow had put astern the great turbulent city after which it had been named.
At Hankow the Hankow picked up the raft which it would tow all the way up to Ching-Fu. Upon this raft was a long, squat cabin, in and out of which poured incessantly members of China's large and growing family.
There were thin, dirty little men, and skinny, soiled little women, and quantities of hungry, dirty little boys and girls. A great noise went up from the raft as the Hankow nosed in alongside, and the new towline was passed and made fast over the bitts.
As the big propeller thumped under them and churned the muddy water into unhealthy-looking foam, Peter Moore and Miss Vost leaned upon the rail, where it curved around the fantail, and discoursed at length, speculating upon the probable destination of that raftful of dirty humanity, and offering problematic answers to the puzzling question as to why were all these people deserting relatively prosperous Hankow for the over-populated, overdeveloped province of Szechwan.
Peter had an inkling that Miss Vost was distressed by the scene.
"Let's take a stroll forward," he suggested.
An urchin, directly below them, stood rubbing his eyes with two grimy fists. His whines were audible above the churning of the engines.
"No, no. I'm quite accustomed to this. Look--just look at that miserable little fellow!"
"He is blind," stated Peter quietly.
"Half of them are blind," Miss Vost replied. Her features were transfixed by a look of sadness. "Wait for me. I'll return in a second."
Peter watched the graceful swing of her shoulders as she strode down the deck to the forward companionway, admiring the slim strength of her silk-clad ankles. She was every inch an American girl. He was proud of her. She returned, carrying a small oblong of cardboard, upon which a photograph was pasted.
Peter found himself looking into the sad, be-wrinkled eyes of a gray-bearded man, a patriarchal gentleman, who stood on the hard clay at the foot of a low stone stairway. His nose, his eyes, his intellectual forehead were distinctly those of Miss Vost. A child in a freshly starched frock, with eyes opened wide in surprise and interest, was firmly clutching one of his trouser-legs.
"My father," explained Miss Vost. "He was stationed at Wenchow then, in charge of the mission. I have not seen him since."
Peter remarked to himself that somehow Miss Vost did not seem to be the daughter of a missionary, nor was the costly way she dressed in key with her remark. Perhaps she divined his thoughts.
"He has money--lots of it. He has a keen, broad mind. But he chose this. When he was first married be brought mother to China. He saw, and realized, China's vast problems. And he stayed. He wanted to help."
Peter gazed into her gray eyes, which seemed to take on a clear violet tinge when she was deeply moved.
"He told me to come to see him because he was growing old. I stopped off in Amoy," said Miss Vost with a ghost of a smile. "A young missionary he wanted me to meet lives there. I met him. But I could not admire that young missionary. He was a--a poseur. He was pretending. One reason I like you, Mr. Moore, is because you're so sincere. He was so transparent. And his 'converts' saw through him, too. They were bread-and-butter converts. They listened to him; they devoured his food--then they went to the fortune-tellers! Father could not have known Doctor Sanborn longer than a few minutes--or else he's not the father that he used to be! I inherit his love for sincerity. I--I'm sure he will like you!"
"But--but----" stammered Peter--"I don't expect to go to Wenchow. Better say he'd like--Bobbie!"
"Oh, he'd like anybody that I liked," Miss Vost said lightly. "It--it's really interesting, you know, from Ching-Fu to Wenchow. We take bullock carts--if we can find them. Otherwise we walk. Doesn't it--appeal to you--just a little--to be all alone with me for nearly a hundred miles?"
"Very much indeed," replied Peter earnestly. "But our roads part--at Ching-Fu. I go directly south."
"In search of more adventure and romance? Perhaps--perhaps a girl who is not so silly as I have been? Or--is it India--or Afghanistan?"
"Neither. An old friend!"
"Is that why you are growing a beard--to surprise--him?"
"Perhaps," said Peter, absently fingering the bristles. "Don't tell me it's unbecoming or I'll have to shave it off!"
"As if what I thought made a particle of difference!" retorted Miss Vost defiantly.
Peter gave her a thoughtful, a puzzled stare. "I overheard you last night. You broke your promise. You promised to be nice to him."
"I was. Do you mean what I said about Liauchow?"
"You don't realize what you mean to Bobbie. My dear, dear girl----"
"I am not your dear, dear girl!"
Peter groaned.
"Does your heart ache, too, Peter?"
"Of course it does! I--I'd like----"
"Then why don't you?"
"It wouldn't be fair, that's why!"
"To--Bobbie?"
"Bobbie, too."
"Then there is another girl," Miss Vost cried bitterly. She bit her lip. "You should have told me before."
"I thought it wouldn't be necessary."
Miss Vost dropped her eyes to Peter's hand which was resting on the rail. Her own hand moved over and nestled against it.
"Do--do you l-love her as much as th-this?" Her eyes returned to his face.
"I did think I did!"
"But you're not sure--now?"
"Oh, I thought I was sure! I am sure'"
"There's little more to say, then, is there?" Her lids were blinking rapidly as she looked down at the mob of filthy little Arabs on the flat. Her fingers plucked, trembling, at the embroidered hem of a white, wadded handkerchief.
"Bobbie does care for you so," observed Peter with unintentional cruelty.
"Oh--oh--him!" sobbed Miss Vost, leaving him to stare after her drooping figure as she retreated down the deck.
She seemed on a sudden to be avoiding the entrance to the forward companionway. He wondered why.
The girl stopped, with her hands clenched into white fists at her sides.
From the doorway, smiling suavely and wiping one hand upon the other in a gesture of solicitous meekness, emerged the tall and commanding figure of the Mongolian--or was he a Tibetan? He was attired now in the finest, the shiniest of Canton silks. His satin pants, of a gorgeous white, a courting white, were strapped about ankles which terminated in curved sandals sparkling with gold and jewels in the mid-day sun. His jacket, long and perfectly fitting, was of a robin's egg blue. His blue-black queue, freshly oiled, gleamed like the coils of an active hill snake.
He was a picture of refined Chinese saturninity.
Miss Vost, beholding him, was properly impressed. She stepped back, not a little appalled, and swept him from queue to sandal with a look that was not the heartiest of receptions. The Mongolian was speaking in oiled, pleasing accents.
Peter strode toward them.
"He insulted me!" panted Miss Vost. "Like many fine, Chinese gentlemen, he thought, perhaps, that I might be--what do they call 'em--a 'nice li'l 'Melican girl!' Impress him with the fact that I am not, Mr. Moore--please do that!"
She hastened around the forward cabin, out of sight.
The Mongolian was regarding Peter with a cool, complacent smile. His expression was smug, uninjured.
"Looka here, Chink-a-link," Peter advised him, "my no savvy you; you no savvy my. My see you allatime. Allatime. You savvy, Chink-a-link?"
"I comprehend you, my friend," replied the Mongolian in polished accents. "In my case, 'pidgin' is not, let me hasten to say, necessary."
"Very good, Chink; the next time you so much as glance in Miss Vost's direction, you're going to walk away with a pair of the dam'dest black eyes in China! Get that--you yellow weasel?"
"Unfortunately," replied the Mongolian, lifting his fine, black eyebrows only a trifle, "your suggestion--your admonitions--are again, most inappropriate. Miss Vost--do I pronounce it correctly? Miss Vost and yourself are the victims of a misunderstanding."
"Take off your coat, and prove I'm wrong!" shouted Peter. "I'm a better man than you are! Swallow it or--fight!"
Peter's gray tweed coat flopped in a heap upon the ironwood deck.
The Mongolian retired a few feet, with indications of anxiety.
"I--I did not intend to offend her," he retracted. His ropy throat muscles seemed to convulse. His long face flamed hotly red. He burst out, as though unable to control himself: "My savvy allatime you no savvy! Ní bùh yào t[=i] nà gò hwà! Djan gò chü, ràng ó dzóu!"
