CHAPTER XV

REINHARDT IN THE TOILS

Burroughs and the smiling captain were still some few yards away from Reinhardt's gangway; Reinhardt was staring with puzzled curiosity at the tall German with the moustache so like his own lost treasure; when Burroughs whispered to Lo San--

"Say to the captain: 'That is the launch, but where is my brother? My brother wears a moustache like mine. Do not the English shave the lip? Ask him who he is.'"

Chung Pi was a horse-boy turned captain; like many great men sprung from humble origin, he was apt to stand upon his dignity. Advancing towards the stranger as he stepped on to the landing-stage, he introduced himself with a grave pomposity, and asked Reinhardt to what Meichow owed the honour of his visit.

The German's eyes were fixed in a puzzled stare on Burroughs, who had taken off his cap as in respectful salutation. The close-cropped hair, the pencilled eyebrows, the stiff perpendicularity of his waxed moustache-ends, had so much altered his appearance that Reinhardt, though he felt that he had seen him somewhere before, did not recognize him. Germanic though his aspect was, there was a nameless something about him that put Reinhardt on his guard. Turning to Chung Pi, he replied courteously, in Chinese, that he was a German employed by his government to keep in touch with the august Su Fing, and that his honourable questioner without doubt knew the name of Reinhardt as a friend and ally of his chief.

Lo San was quick-witted. He saw that there was no time to translate the conversation to Burroughs, and for the moment held his peace. Burroughs could only stand in a commanding attitude with folded arms, accusation in his frown. He bethought himself of his moustache, and gave it a cautious twirl. And all the time he wished with desperate anxiety that he could understand what Reinhardt was saying.

Chung Pi looked at the German with fatuous indecision. Burroughs felt that another moment might seal his fate. He was beating his brains for a possible move if his stratagem failed, when Lo San interrupted Reinhardt as he was asking whether Su Fing had returned to the town.

"You see, honourable captain," he said, "that this man who calls himself a German has no moustache!"

And now the pen of the narrator fails: only a gramophone and a cinematograph could faithfully record the scene. Imagine the three men: the magnified horse-boy, bewildered between a furious German, shouting in Chinese, and a calm but quaking Englishman, standing like a judge about to condemn; with a shrill-voiced China boy at his side, screaming into Chung Pi's very ear; the men on the landing-stage gaping; the motley crowd at the shoreward end watching keenly, like the spectators at a boxing-match. Chung Pi, Reinhardt, Lo San, were all talking at once. Reinhardt, incoherent with rage, yelled "I am a German." Chung Pi asked him not to shout. Lo San, determined to make himself heard, screamed "He is an Englishman. As your excellency knows, the friend of Su Fing wears a moustache; it is the custom in his country; look at my august master."

Chung Pi, a peasant beneath his uniform, was slow, tenacious and pig-headed. He had seen Reinhardt once or twice, and carried away an impression of a moustache and little more. If this was Reinhardt, where was the moustache? He felt that he was being played with--he, the lieutenant of Su Fing, was bemocked by a man whose upper lip was even cleaner than that of the Englishman in the yamen. And when Burroughs, taking advantage of Reinhardt's vociferous abuse, whispered to Lo San to suggest that the man should be put with the other Englishman, and Lo San yelled the suggestion into the captain's ear, Chung Pi's simple mind was made up. Beckoning to some of his ruffians who stood expectantly by, he ordered them to seize the pig of an Englishman and carry him to the yamen. The chief should deal with him.

For a few seconds a whirling mass gyrated at the edge of the landing-stage. The centre of it was Conrad Reinhardt; the circumference was formed by a dozen Chinese legs. Yells of rage and derision arose from the variegated crowd of spectators as they watched the supposed Englishman--as much as they could see of him--struggling in the grasp of the spearmen. The scuffle ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Reinhardt appeared to bethink himself of his dignity. He made no further resistance, but allowed the insurgents to lead him away.

That procession is probably a cherished memory in Meichow to this day. It was led by the lictors--if the ragged ruffians may be dignified with that name for the nonce--who thrust back the shouting people that flocked from every alley to see the sight. Then came the prisoner amid the spearmen. A few paces behind marched the two sets of chairmen, carrying Burroughs and Chung Pi, with Chin Tai stepping beside. More spearmen brought up the rear. Lo San had returned to the hydroplane.

At the gate of the yamen Burroughs got out of his chair and approached that of the captain, beckoning Chin Tai forward to interpret.

"Your honourable presence," he said, "has no doubt great preparations to make for the reception of the august Su Fing. I feel that it would ill beseem me to take up more of your time. For myself, I think I ought to follow the prisoner. Who knows what conspiracy he may not hatch with the other if I am not there to keep an eye on them!"

"But you may be in danger from their violence," said Chung Pi. "You saw how the Englishman fought and kicked."

"Yes, he behaved very badly," replied Burroughs; "but with four of your brave warriors outside the door, the prisoners would not dare to molest me."

And with ceremonious salutations they parted.

Meanwhile Reinhardt had been marched through the courtyards, and taken to the room where Errington was wondering anxiously what had happened to his friend. The door was thrown open, and the German thrust inside. The spearmen reported by and by to their captain that on entering the room, the new prisoner advanced towards the other, holding out his hand, and saying some few words of greeting. The first prisoner neither took his hand nor replied to him. Chung Pi had sufficient intelligence to explain this incident satisfactorily to himself. The new-comer was undoubtedly English. He had recognized the prisoner, who, however, was more prudent, and pretended not to know him. Chung Pi plumed himself on his sagacity, and basked in the anticipated light of Su Fing's countenance when he should return and find two birds in his cage.

Reinhardt had made up his mind, while walking up to the yamen, to accept with as good a grace as possible the temporary inconvenience which he owed to the loss of his moustache--also temporary: he felt his upper lip, and discovered proofs of a new crop. By keeping his temper under control he would give himself the best chance of dealing with circumstances as they arose. Of course, when Su Fing returned all would be set right; and he promised himself that the ass of a captain who had so stupidly mistaken him should have cause to regret his imbecility. But he was a good deal puzzled. Who was this man, ostensibly a German, who had stood by indifferent while a compatriot of his own was being shamed? And who was the Chinaman who had uttered such abominable things about him? He was something like Lo San, Errington's boy. And then a light flashed upon him: it _was_ Lo San; Errington, he knew, had been captured; no doubt he was the "other Englishman" who had been mentioned; and the whole affair was a plot on Lo San's part to bring his master and Reinhardt together, in the hope that the German might be persuaded to plead for him with the chief.

This thought comforted Reinhardt. Lo San was evidently a clever fellow; and as Errington's career was of course ended, his boy would probably be quite willing to enter the service of a new master. The German was therefore prepared, when he was pushed forward into the room, to find Errington waiting with open arms to receive him.

He was surprised when Errington refused to speak to him.

"Come, my friend," he said, "zis is not kind. Here am I, come at great cost to serve you, and you cut me! Zere is some big mistake; ze fool of a captain supposes me to be English, and makes me a prisoner. We are two prisoners togezer. Zis is not ze time for coldness between friends. Wizout you, I should not be here at zis moment." Reinhardt was unaware how truly he had spoken. "You owe me much. But you are young, and like many young men, you do not know your best friends."

Errington, on his part, was thoroughly amazed when he saw Reinhardt enter the room. Hearing footsteps outside the door, he had expected to see Burroughs again. The entrance of a man whom, after his recent interview with Burroughs, he distrusted and despised gave him a shock. Instinctively he refused him his hand. But now, at the German's explanation, strange as it was, he began to wonder whether he had not done him a double injustice. Perhaps the man had repented of his refusal of Burroughs' appeal, and after all had come up the river to his assistance.

He was wavering, on the point of asking Reinhardt whether he had seen Burroughs, when the German began to speak again.

"Yes, when your own countrymen do nozink for you, behold me, a German, putting my head into ze lion's mouse on your behalf. I ask you, why should I do so? You owe me five hundred dollars: bah! I zink nozink of zat. You are to me nozink but a friend----"

"And a servant of your firm," Errington blurted out, resenting the reference to his debt, and desperately uneasy now that it was clear that Burroughs and the German had not met.

"Not so," said Reinhardt complacently. "Zere is no reason why I should come to help you--nozink but friendship. You are no longer employed by my firm."

This took Errington's breath away. He listened in stony silence as Reinhardt proceeded.

"Zey pay you zree munce salary instead of notice. I have ze cheque in my pocket. Now you see what a friend I am, when you are no longer wiz me in business, and owe me five hundred dollars. Which is ze friend, Conrad Reinhardt, or Burroughs, ze man what preach, ze man who is what you call a smug, who eats and drinks merry when his old friend is----"

Errington could stand no more. Springing to his feet, he hit out a swinging blow that sent the German spinning across the room.

Reinhardt's hand flew to his breast pocket. He whipped out a revolver, and was taking a snapshot at Errington when his arm was struck up from behind; the weapon exploded harmlessly, and next moment was wrenched from his grasp and flung across the room. Unseen, unheard, Burroughs had quietly entered the room and taken in the situation at a glance.

No word had been spoken. While a man might count three there was a dead silence in the room. Then Burroughs, stepping to the still open door, confronted the sentinels and Chin Tai, who were pressing forward, alarmed by the shot.

"Bind that man!" cried Burroughs, pointing to the German, now slowly rising to his feet.

There was no hesitation among the men. They understood by this time that the supposed detention of Burroughs was only a move in their chief's policy. They did not understand it, but it was no affair of theirs. There were no ropes at hand, but they stripped off their cummerbunds; and in a few minutes Reinhardt, glowering from Burroughs to Errington, and from Errington to Burroughs, lay on the floor, trussed with bonds of yellow and red.