Chapter Four
“Here! You’d better come ashore.”
Foul weather extended the voyage of the steamer to a length of five days before she reached the little port of destination, where, in the midst of a glorious change, Stan followed his conductor into a great clumsy junk, which was sailed when the windings of the fine, broad Mour River made the wind favourable, and tracked by coolies hauling upon a huge twisted bamboo cable when the breeze was adverse for a couple of days more.
The up-river trip was most enjoyable, through a highly cultivated country teeming with an industrious population and glowing with abundant crops; while the scenery was so glorious, and the novelty of the continuous panorama so great, that Stan felt a chill of disappointment at sunset one glowing evening when Wing, who had crept quietly up behind him, touched his shoulder, and stood pointing towards a village at the foot of a grand stretch of cliff, the houses rising up the beautiful terraced slope, while at the foot was a group of new-looking buildings, at the back of a wharf to which some half-dozen trading-boats were moored.
“Nang Ti,” said Wing, with a broad smile. “Young Lynn big hong full silk, full tea, full nicee piecee chop chop all along young Lynn. See big Blunt soon. Young Lynn savee big managee Blunt?”
“No, I have never seen him,” said Stan as he sheltered his eyes from the ruddy orange sunlight and scanned the place.
“Velly big stlong man. Velly good man. Velly big shoutee tongue say ‘Ho!’ and ‘Ha!’ Flighten stlong coolie man; makee wuck. Coolie go dlink much samshu, lie down, go sleepee; Blunt come behind, takee pigtail, pullee up, and kickee velly much. Makee coolie cly ‘Oh!’ Makee loll ovey and ovey, and say leady to go wuck and nevey dlink samshu, no mo’.”
“Indeed!” said Stan, who began to picture in his own mind what sort of a personage the manager in charge might be. “And then, I suppose, after being kicked for getting tipsy on samshu, the men never drink any more?”
“No,” said Wing, grinning more widely. “Velly much flighten. Nevey dlink any mo’ till next time. Poh! Gleat big silly boy, coolie. Gleat stlong man up to head – head like big baby chile. Much flighten when big Blunt come shout ‘Ho! ha!’ Big piecee man, big Blunt. Mastee managee. Young Lynn mastee managee now. Flighten big Blunt.”
“Indeed!” said Stan, smiling. “Well, we shall see.”
“Yes, young Lynn see soon. Lookee! Big Blunt.”
Wing pointed again, and following the direction of the extended index-finger, Stan saw a tall figure in white step out of one of the buildings, make its way to where a crane stretched out its diagonal arm, from which a chain with heavy ball and hooks was suspended over the river, and then stop to gaze at the junk upon whose high stern Stan and his companion were on the lookout.
Just then the tindal, or master of the junk, began to shout to his men, one of whom ran forward and began to thump a gong hanging in the bows, sending forth a booming roar whose effect was to bring a little crowd of half-naked coolies out of the buildings ashore, and three or four Europeans in white, while the crew of the junk began to swarm about the great clumsy vessel like bees.
The wind was favourable, and the great matting sails creaked and rustled, while their yards groaned as they rubbed against the bamboo masts as their sheets were tightened and pulled home, sending the heavy boat gliding up-river at an increased pace, soon getting abreast of the wharf, and then gliding along up-stream and leaving it behind.
“What does this mean?” said Stan excitedly. “Doesn’t the captain know we are to stop there?”
“Young Lynn soon see,” replied Wing. “Velly fast lun watey big stleam. Young Lynn wait. Go ’long bit way. Captain know.”
He did know perfectly how to manage his clumsy craft, which, in obedience to his signs to the steersman, was run on in a diagonal course which took it in nearer to the bank from which the cliff ran up. Then, as a few yells were uttered, some of the men seized the ropes, others got out great sweeps, there was a bang on the gong, the two great sails came rattling down upon the deck, the long sweeps began to dip as the junk’s pace grew slower and slower, till she finally stopped and began to go back, but so slowly and well-directed that she glided close alongside the wharf, whence men threw ropes; and in a wonderfully short time, considering the clumsiness of the craft and equipage, the junk was moored alongside so closely that it was possible to run a gangway aboard for the occupants to go ashore.
Stan was making ready to approach the gangway, when the figure in white approached the side, and without taking any notice of him, nodded to the Chinese captain shortly, and then turned to Wing.
“Hullo, you, sir!” he shouted in a big, vigorous voice, as if he meant himself to be heard back at the stern.
“Yes. Come back again,” said Wing.
“What made you so long?”
“Velly bad wind blow velly much indeed. Steamship no get ’long fast.”
“Humph! Bring me any letters?”
“Yes, bling big pack letteys. Got lot.”
“Come along, then, ashore; I’ve no time to waste.”
“I shall never like you,” thought Stan to himself as he waited patiently for the manager to address him in turn. But the big, keen, masterful-looking fellow did not seem even to glance in the lad’s direction, keeping his eyes fixed upon Wing, who seemed to be quite afraid of him, and did not venture to speak till the manager said loudly and sharply, as if to annoy the stranger:
“Who’s that boy you’ve got on board there?”
Wing looked troubled, and glanced first at Stan and then at the speaker.
“Well, sir, why don’t you answer?” continued the manager.
“Young Lynn. Come ’long flom Hai-Hai.”
“Oh!” said the manager gruffly. “Whose son is he – Mr Oliver’s or Mr Jeffrey’s? Oh, I remember; Mr Jeffrey isn’t married.” Then turning his eyes full upon Stan with a searching stare, he said shortly, “How do? Here! you’d better come ashore.”
Chapter Five
“He’s a Regular Brick.”
“This is pleasant!” thought Stan as he stepped on to the gangway. “If this man is our servant he oughtn’t to speak to me like that. Here! I shall have a to go back by the next boat. Father and Uncle Jeff don’t want me to be treated like this.”
It was a cheerless welcome to the place that was to be his new home for the time, and a feeling of resentment began to grow up within him as he stepped on to the wharf, meeting the manager’s eyes boldly, and gradually feeling more and more determined to maintain his position and not allow himself to be, as he termed it, “sat upon” by this bullying sort of individual.
A fierce stare was exchanged for some moments before the manager spoke again, more gruffly than ever, just as Wing handed him the packet of letters he had brought.
“Better come in here,” he said. – “You, Wing, tell the skipper to make all fast. I won’t have any unloading till the morning.”
He led the way to what seemed to be the office of the great warehouse, for there were desks, stools, and writing implements, while maps hung from the wall, and bills of lading in files decorated the place in a way which made it look more grim and showed up its bareness.
As soon as they were inside, the manager perched himself on a high stool, took a big ebony ruler off the desk, and began rolling it to and fro upon his knees, before opening the principal letter of the batch, one which Stan could see plainly had been written by his uncle.
This missive the manager read through twice before laying it flat upon the table and giving it a bang with his open hand.
“Bah!” he growled. “Stan Lynn – Stan Lynn. What a name for a boy! Why did your people christen you that?”
“They didn’t,” said Stan coolly, though he could feel a peculiar twitching going on along his nerves.
“What!” cried the manager fiercely – quite in the tone he would have used to a contradictory coolie. “Why, look here,” he continued, bringing his hand down on the packet of letters with another heavy bang which made the ink start out of the well. “Why, I have it here, in your father’s handwriting. Um – um – um! Where is it? Oh, here: ‘my son Stan’.”
“Nonsense! Let’s look,” said the boy sharply, and quickly stepping forward to look at the writing. “’Tisn’t; it’s ‘Stanley,’ only my father has contracted the ‘ley’ into a dash. It’s a way he has.”
“Then it’s time he began to write plainly. Who’s to know what he means?”
“Any one,” said Stan quite as fiercely. “And look here; you wouldn’t speak of my father’s writing like that if he were here.”
“What!” roared the manager, giving the desk a tremendous bang with the big ebony ruler to frighten Stan, who began to perspire profusely, but not from alarm. His temper, that had been fast asleep, was aroused by the reception he was having, and feeling at once that life with this man would be unbearable, he spoke out at once boldly and defiantly.
“I spoke plainly enough,” he said haughtily, “and you know what I said.”
“Well,” cried the manager, “of all the insolent young coxcombs I ever encountered, you take the prize. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” said Stan; “my father’s manager.”
“Yes, sir, I am,” he roared; “and I know how to manage men, let alone cocky, conceited boys. Don’t you think you are coming here to lord it and set up your feathers, and crow and grow scarlet in the comb. I shall soon cut that for you, so just get ready to take your proper place at once. I’d have you to know that I have as much authority and am as much master in this solitary, out-of-the-way place as if I were a king.”
“Over the Chinese coolies, perhaps,” said Stan firmly, “but not over me.”
“What I – Why, the boy’s mad with conceit.”
“No, I’m not,” said Stan – “not conceited at all; and if you behave properly to me you’ll find that I shall help you in every way I can.”
“Behave properly! Oh, come! this is rich. Here’s a boy who ought to be at school, where he would get the cane if he did not behave himself, vapouring about as if he had come to be master here. There! the sooner we understand each other the better – Mr Stanley – sir.”
There was a mocking sarcasm in the delivery of these last words that made the boy writhe. But he mastered his temper bravely enough, and said coolly:
“I don’t want to be called ‘Mr Stanley’ and ‘sir.’ I was christened Stanley, but my friends looked upon it as being too pretentious. They always call me Stan.”
“Oh, I see! Thank you for the kind explanation,” said the manager sarcastically. “Well, here you are; and now you are here, what do you want? I see you’ve brought a gun. Come snipe and duck shooting?”
“My father has fully explained in his letter, I believe.”
“Explained? Perhaps so; but I have not had time to read it yet, so perhaps you will speak.”
“That is easily done. You wrote to the firm asking for help and companionship.”
“Of course I did; and I took it for granted that Mr Jeffrey Lynn would come and share the burden of my enormously increasing work.”
“It is all explained in the letters, as I told you,” said Stan. “Uncle was coming, but the Chinese made an attack on the place.”
“Eh? What’s that?” cried the manager excitedly; and Stan gave him a brief account of what had passed, while every word was listened to eagerly.
“It was quite out of the question for my father to be left,” ended Stan at last, “and so I am sent to help instead.”
“Humph!” said the manager, looking grave. “It has come to that, has it? Restless, uncontrolled savages. Well,” he added, changing his tone again, “so they’ve sent a boy like you?”
“Yes.”
“And for want of decent help and companionship, I’m to make the best of you?”
“I suppose so,” said Stan coldly, and wishing the while that he was back at Hai-Hai, home, or anywhere but at this solitary hong.
“But I don’t think you’ll like the life here, young fellow,” said the manager, with an unpleasant smile. “There’s a very savage, piratical lot of Chinese about on this river. It has an awful character. If you’ll take my advice – Will you?”
“Of course,” said Stan quietly. “You must know better, from your experience here, than I do.”
“That’s right; I do. Well, then, you take it: go back by the next boat. It doesn’t look as if things are very safe at Hai-Hai, but it’s a paradise to this place here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Stan, “but I certainly can’t go back; I have come to stay.”
“Oh, very well!” said the manager. “I’ve warned you. I wash my hands of the whole affair. But I’ll promise you this: I’ll get your remains together.”
“My remains?” said Stan, aghast.
“Of course; they are sure to hack you to pieces – it’s a way they have. And there’ll be some difficulty, perhaps, in recovering your head. They generally carry that off as a trophy; but I’ll do my best to get you back to the old folks in a cask of Chinese palm-spirit. Will that do?”
During the past few moments Stan had felt a sensation as if cold steel of wondrously sharp edge were at work upon his back and across his neck; but the tone of the question brought him back to himself, and he replied calmly:
“Capitally. But, by the way, if the savage pirates come and treat me like that, where will you be?”
“Eh?” said the manager, staring. “Where shall I be?”
“Yes. Isn’t it just as likely that I should have to do this duty for you?”
“Oh, I see! Yes, of course; but – Ha, ha, ha! Come! you have got something in you after all. You are pretty sharp.”
“Just sharp enough to see that you are trying to frighten me.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the manager, with a dry smile. “But you’ve had a sample of what these people can do, and I won’t answer for it that they don’t try some of their capers here. Then you mean to risk it?”
“Of course,” said Stan. “My father and uncle sent me to help you.”
“Well, don’t blame me if you get your head taken off.”
“No,” said Stan coolly, and with a peculiar smile; “I don’t think I shall do that – then.”
“More do I,” said the manager grimly. “Well, here you are, and I suppose I must make the best of you.”
“I suppose so,” said Stan.
“You’ll have to work pretty hard – make entries and keep the day-book. I suppose you can do that?”
“I suppose so,” said the lad, “but I can’t say for certain till I try.”
“All right; then the sooner you try the better, because I’ve got enough to do here in keeping things straight; and if you find that you can’t, I shall just pack you off back to your father and uncle. You’re too young, and not the sort of chap I should have chosen for the job.”
“Indeed! What sort of a lad would you have chosen?”
“Oh, not a dandified, pomatumed fellow like you, who is so very particular about his collar and cuffs, and looks as if he’d be afraid to dirty his hands.”
“I don’t see that because a fellow is clean he is not so good for work,” said Stan.
“Oh, don’t you? Well, I’ve had some experience, my lad. I want here a fellow who knows how to rough it. You don’t.”
“But I suppose I can learn.”
“Learn? Of course you can, but you won’t. There! you’ve come, and I suppose, as I said before, I must make the best of you; but next time you see the heads of the firm, perhaps you’ll tell them that I don’t consider it part of my business as manager of this out-of-the-way place to lick their cubs into shape.”
“Hadn’t you better write and tell them so?” said the lad warmly.
“What!” roared the man. “Now just look here, young fellow; you and I had better come to an understanding at once. Whether it’s clerk, warehouseman, or Chinese coolie, I put up with no insolence. It’s a word and a blow with me, as sure as my name’s Sam Blunt.”
“Sam!” said the lad quietly. “What a name! Why did your people christen you that?”
The manager tilted his stool back till he could balance himself on two of its legs and let his head rest against the whitewashed wall of the bare-looking office, staring in astonishment at his visitor. Then leaning forward again, he came down on all four legs of his tall stool, caught up the big ebony ruler, and brought it down with a fresh bang upon the desk, which made the ink this time jump out of the little well in a fountain, as he stared fiercely at the lad, who returned his gaze perfectly unmoved.
“Well, of all,” – he said; he did not say what, but kept on staring.
“What sort of a fellow do you call yourself?” he cried at last.
“I don’t know,” was the cool reply.
“No; I don’t suppose you do. But look here; I’m going to look over that and set it down to ignorance, as you are quite a stranger; and so let me tell you there’s only one man whom I allow to call me Sam Blunt, and I’m that man. Understand?”
The lad nodded.
“There! as you’re the son of one of the principals, and don’t know any better, I won’t quarrel with you.”
“That’s right,” said the lad coolly; and the man stared again.
“Because,” he continued, “I’m thinking that we shall have plenty of quarrelling to do with John Chinaman.”
“Is there any likelihood of our going to war?” said the lad quickly.
“Every likelihood,” said the man, watching his visitor keenly; “and if I were you I’d have a bad attack of fever while my shoes were good.”
“I didn’t know one could have, or not have, fever just as one liked.”
“I suppose not,” said his companion. “But you take my advice: you catch a bad fever at once. And then, as there is no doctor anywhere here, and I’m a horribly bad nurse, I’ll send you back to Hai-Hai at once for your people to set you right.”
“You mean sham illness?” said Stan sharply.
“What! Why, hang me if you’re not a smarter fellow than I took you for! Yes, that’s it; and then you’ll go back and be safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Being made into mincemeat by the first party of Chinese pirates who come this way. They’re splendid for that, as I hinted to you before. Nothing they love better than chopping up a foreign devil like you.”
“Hadn’t you better have a fever too?” said the lad quietly.
“Oh, come! Better and better!” cried the other. “You’re not such a fool as you look, young fellow! No: I’ve got too much to do to go away from this go-down, and your people know it. That’s why they’ve sent you to get in my way and put me out of temper. I say, though; you’ve heard nothing about the breaking out of war?”
“Not a word since I’ve been in China. I heard something on my voyage.”
“Of course you haven’t, or your father and uncle wouldn’t have sent you down here. But you may take my word for it, there’s trouble coming – and that, too, before long. Did you see many piratical-looking war-junks as you came up the river?”
“N-no,” said Stan. “I saw several big mat-sailed barges with high sterns, and great eyes painted in their bows; but I thought they were trading-boats.”
“So they are, my lad – one day; they’re pirates the next. And perhaps on the very next they’re men-o’-war. Anything, according to circumstances, for I’ve found out that artful is the best word for describing a Chinaman. But there! you’ll soon know. Look here; after what I’ve told you, do you mean to stay?”
“Certainly,” said Stan.
“Very well, then. Come and have a look at my quarters. They’re a bit rough, but you say you won’t mind roughing it.”
“No,” said Stan; “I’ve come here to do the best I can.”
“Oh!” said the manager in a tone full of surprise; “that’s what you’ve come for, is it?”
“Of course,” said Stan, wondering at the tone the man had taken.
“Very well, then, we may as well shake hands. I was just thinking of sitting down to dinner when the junk came in sight, so you’ll come and join me – eh?”
“Yes,” said Stan; “I am getting hungry.”
“That’s right. I say, though, squire; you think me a regular ruffian, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said the lad quietly.
“Oh, come! That’s frank, anyhow.”
“It makes you rough and disposed to bully, living a solitary life like this, I suppose.”
“Humph!” said the manager, frowning; “but I don’t know what you mean by solitary. I have English clerks and checking-men, and a whole gang of coolies. Do you call that solitary?”
“But they are under you. I suppose you live a good deal by yourself.”
“Humph! Yes,” said the manager.
“And that, of course, makes you rough.”
“P’raps so. But you won’t find me so rough when you get used to me. There! come along and let’s see what my cook has got for us this evening. You’ll have to take pot-luck. Wing will contrive something better. Come on.”
There was a grim, satisfied smile in the manager’s countenance as he rose, took a great stride such as his long legs enabled him to do with ease, and clapping Stan on the shoulder, swung him round and looked him straight in the face.
“Why, youngster,” he said, “your father must have been wonderfully like you in the phiz when he was your age; but in downright style of speaking and ways you put me wonderfully in mind of your uncle Jeffrey.”
“Do I?” said Stan quietly.
“You do; but he’s a regular brick of a man.”
“That he is,” cried Stan warmly; “but that means I’m not a bit like him there.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the manager slowly. “One can’t say at the end of half-an-hour, but I’m beginning to think you will not be so very bad after all.”
“I hope not,” said Stan, smiling.
“I thought at first that you would be a regular stuck-up cub. But I don’t think so now. Look here, youngster; can you be honest?”
“I hope so.”
“Then tell me what you thought of me.”
“That you were a disagreeable bully.”
“Hah! That’s pretty blunt,” said the manager, frowning. “So that’s what you think of me, is it?”
“You asked me what I thought of you, not what I think.”
“Right; so I did. Then what do you think of me?”
“That you’re going to prove not so bad as I thought.”
“Dinnee all getting velly cold, cookee say, Mistee Blunt,” said Wing in a deprecating voice; and they both started to see that the Chinaman had entered quietly upon his thick, soft boot-soles.
“All right, Wing; coming,” cried the manager shortly. – “Come along, captain; you and I are going to be great friends.”