Part 6

Mrs. Dunlap’s daily routine began each morning after breakfast by “taking accounts” with the cook. The cook in China does the marketing, and he also gets his commission or “squeeze” as it is popularly called. That is, he buys a pound and half of meat and brings in a bill for two, or he charges his mistress a few coppers more a pound than he has paid. This squeezing business is perfectly understood by both parties, and providing it does not exceed certain bounds, nothing is said about it. Market prices are quoted each morning in one of the Shanghai dailies, and by consulting this and making an occasional visit herself to market, Mrs. Dunlap kept informed as to about what she ought to pay. Whenever the cook began to take undue advantage of her, she did not accuse him of it directly, but a conversation something like the following would ensue: “Ta Shih-fu (Great Assistant), you are paying too much for meat.” “Yes, so I told the butcher, but he won’t take less.” “Then go somewhere else.” Or, “One hundred and four eggs are too many to use in two days for our small family.” “It certainly is a great many but I had to put eighteen into a cake.” “You must use fewer.” “I will try.” Now Mrs. Dunlap knew, and the cook knew that she knew, that he had paid a moderate price for the meat and was charging her for eggs which he never bought or had disposed of himself. But through this indirect method of dealing with him, by no means original with her, she gained her end and saved the face of the Great Assistant. Had he suffered “loss of face” probably nothing would have been said by him at the time, but later he might have appeared before his mistress to announce sorrowfully that his uncle or great-aunt had just died and he must leave at once. Perhaps next day he would be found comfortably installed in a neighbouring kitchen. Occasionally a young housekeeper, new to China, undertakes to do her own marketing and even to dispense with a cook altogether. But after a few days, or at the most a few weeks, she usually gives up the trial she made so hopefully, realizing that as conditions are in China it is next to impossible for a foreign woman to do her own housework.

Following the taking of accounts came giving out “stores” for the day. Housekeepers differ. Some keep nothing under lock and key. Others deal out what is needed in minutest measure, a cupful of rice, a half cup of sugar. Mrs. Dunlap found it expedient to follow a middle course, not putting temptation in the cook’s way by giving him free access to the stores, but at the same time showing that he was trusted by letting him have a fairly liberal quantity at a time. If the supplies disappeared too rapidly she dealt with him after the ordinary indirect fashion. Frequently she and her neighbors helped one another by “comparing notes.” “How long does a fifty pound bag of flour last you?” “How many pounds of sugar do you average in a week?”

Mrs. Dunlap’s cook was an artist in his way. When the spirit moved him he sent his cakes, pies, and puddings to the table ornamented in a style that would do justice to a Fifth Avenue caterer. One day, however, he gave the family a surprise. A cake was served for dinner that had a most peculiar flavor. “I told the cook to use lemon filling, but there is no taste of lemon about this,” declared Mrs. Dunlap, critically sampling a bit of the cake. “No, and there _is_ a strong taste of onion,” said her husband. “Oh, impossible! But yes, there really is!” The cook was called in. “What did you make the filling of?” questioned Mrs. Dunlap. “Onions,” was the prompt reply. “Onions! Why, I told you to use lemon.” “No, the lady said onions, and I am an obedient cook. I always do just as the lady bids.” Then suddenly it dawned on the crest-fallen mistress that she _had_ ordered onion, the Chinese word for that pungent vegetable and for lemon being somewhat alike. But this was not quite as bad as the experiment of a friend’s cook, who, with no malice whatever, but the best of intentions, flavored the soup with kerosene oil, and on another occasion poured a liberal quantity of hair oil into the pudding. As to cleanliness or rather the lack of that admirable virtue in the moral make-up of many otherwise desirable chefs, without question the least said the better. But when a cook is discovered washing his waistcoat in the dishpan, or polishing the stove with a fine tea-towel, if a summary dismissal ensues, can any one blame the sorely-tried house-wife? Many a merry half hour the ladies of the neighbourhood spend over their teacups sharing experiences both amusing and tragic. The longer Mrs. Dunlap lived in China the more she realized that while the “servant problem” in the Orient is not solved, as many in Western lands seem to think it is, yet the excellencies of Chinese servants are many and pronounced. These are more noticeably away from the coast cities, and were more general before the recent revolution, and even before 1900, but the sterling good qualities of the better servants are still worthy of the highest praise. Where will more devoted, faithful service be found? Were the children sick at night, or was Mr. Dunlap leaving the city by a midnight boat or an early train, the servants were on duty, eager and willing without a word of complaint.

One time the Dunlaps arrived home from a journey at midnight to find a hot supper awaiting them. It had been ready since seven o’clock when the family was expected, but by some occult process known only to the cook, the food had been kept from burning or drying up during the intervening hours. The men were blinking and heavy-eyed, but absolutely good-natured.

It was a never failing comfort to Mrs. Dunlap to be able to announce the arrival of unexpected guests to the servants without the shadow of a fear of any unpleasantness. Indeed, the larger the number, the happier was the cook, for the more he had to buy the bigger his “squeeze.” Still a great amount of extra work was often involved, which was always taken as a matter of course. The “boy” delighted to decorate the dining table, and if left to his own devices a favorite diversion was to write on the tablecloth, with colored rice and flower petals, characters meaning love, happiness, long life, and peace.

But it was when the Dunlaps gave their house-warming that the servants’ virtues shone the brightest. To save time, the small cakes, toothsome and delicate, were bought at a foreign bakery. To save money, though there are caterers in Shanghai, the ice-cream was made at home. Freezers were borrowed from neighbors, and late in the afternoon a busy scene was enacted in the little courtyard. The cook had called in coolies from the street, and “boys” from the houses around, and all were soon grinding away as if for dear life. Ice can always be had in Shanghai. The Dunlaps often observed with interest that whenever the neighboring ponds were encrusted with ice, even half an inch thick, the Chinese cut it carefully away and stored it in nearby sheds. This broken ice sells for much less than the foreign artificial ice, which however comes in cakes and is much better. Mrs. Dunlap ventured to ask the cook if the cream would keep till a late hour. With a lordly wave of the hand the Great Assistant replied, “Leave that to me, Lady. Leave that to me.” And she knew she could.

Meanwhile the boy had been given the responsibility in the dining-room. Mrs. Dunlap laid on the table extra silver. “Here are so many forks, so many spoons,” she explained. “Strange men will be in the kitchen this evening. The silver is in your care.” That was all, and she never gave it another thought. Had a piece been missing, it would shortly have been returned. How, and from where, who knows? The secret service system of Chinese servants is a mystery to foreigners.

That night before going upstairs Mrs. Dunlap was respectfully requested to look at the silver, washed and neatly piled on the sideboard. The tired boy would not sleep until she had inspected it and declared it all right.

VI

SOMETHING ABOUT VEHICLES

Let them be named decently and in order. First and foremost is the wheelbarrow. It does not take this rank because of its superior size, elegance, or even usefulness, but on account of its antiquity. To be sure, it can not lay claim to antedating the sedan-chair, but the dignified and exclusive sedan-chair has practically dropped out of Shanghai street life and hence will not be considered. The wheelbarrow on the contrary, instead of being relegated to the interior or less modern towns, creakily holds its own, and is not to be downed. Nor does any one want it to be, useful vehicle that it is, unless perchance some nervous invalids, or weary sleepers, whose morning rest is disturbed by the rising crescendo of the rasping, tormenting, unconquerable nuisance. The creak could be stopped with a few drops of oil--the easiest matter in the world, but the coolie loves that creak--he would not part with it for anything. It means business. It is the evidence of work being accomplished. Without it he would feel lost. Every wheelbarrow, the Chinese say, has its individual creak. People too far off to be recognized are identified in this way. “Friend Wong is coming,” says a man to his neighbor, “I hear his creak.” A Chinese wheelbarrow has this advantage over its foreign compeers, that instead of a small wheel at the end, it has a large one in the center. To be sure, the wheel rising up divides the wheelbarrow into halves, but makes it much easier to carry the weight. A stout woven rope band fastened to the handle-bars and passing back across the coolie’s shoulders helps greatly to steady the load.

The Shanghai wheelbarrow is mostly used for freight, but because of its cheapness it is a favourite passenger vehicle with a certain class of Chinese, especially the women and children going to and from the mills. Often eight or ten crowd on, sitting sideways with their feet hanging down. Once eleven women and girls were seen on one, pushed along by a single coolie. A coolie ordinarily is able to manage anywhere from six hundred to a thousand pounds. He carries everything, from building-stone to goose feathers. When the cargo is heavy the poor fellow staggers like a drunken man, moving from side to side to balance his load. His veins stand out like whipcords and the perspiration pours off from him in streams. To keep from being blinded by it in summer he frequently has to wear a band forming artificial eyebrows across his forehead to catch and hold the water. All the time, breathless as he is, he usually keeps up his singing cry, partly from force of habit and partly to warn people that he is coming and to clear the road. But street-cars can’t turn out of the way, and some other vehicles won’t, so occasionally the coolie gets caught in a trap, the wheelbarrow loses its balance, and over it goes. With certain kinds of cargo no damage is done and the only inconvenience is the delay and extra lifting, but if the load is rice bags which burst open, or breakable merchandise, the coolie faces a bad situation. He earns, as a rule, a fair living wage for a poor man, but there is no surplus to cover the cost of accidents.

Wheelbarrow coolies, though, are said to live longer and fare better than most ricsha coolies. This latter class is very shortlived as a rule. Their working years do not ordinarily extend beyond three, five, or at the most ten. One Shanghai ricsha coolie declared he had pulled a ricsha for twenty-four years, but this, if true, was most exceptional. At the present time there are between nine and ten thousand public ricshas in Shanghai, but probably a shifting population during the year of many times that number of coolies. Some one who has studied the subject estimates that the entire coolie population of Shanghai, including all classes, reaches as high as four hundred thousand. The average earnings of a ricsha coolie are seven coppers, about three or four cents, a day, and from this pittance he must support a family, and that too in a city noted over China for high cost of living. No wonder a doctor in charge of a mission hospital where many sick coolies are sent recently reported, “A large number of the cases brought in are in a state of collapse due to malnutrition and the bad hygienic conditions of their life superadded to the strenuous spasmodic strain they undergo.” Heart trouble and China’s inveterate foe, tuberculosis, carry off the majority. Perspiring freely, even in winter, after a hard run, then waiting, it may be an hour, for another “fare,” in the penetrating wind or chilling rain, with no extra covering for their thinly clad bodies, the coolies are in a condition to succumb readily to disease. Married men live in colonies in the outskirts of the city, in little straw or bamboo huts, for which they pay a rental of from fifteen to twenty cents a month. In cold weather the whole family crawls inside to keep warm, where the air is heavy with tobacco smoke and the fumes from the little charcoal fire over which the rice is cooking. Many a baby contracts eye disease that later leads to blindness. Unmarried ricsha coolies sleep wherever they can find shelter, ordinarily in the cheap tea-houses, often as many as fifty herding together in one small room. The conditions in these places beggar description.

The coolies do not own their ricshas. They are the property of companies, some foreign, others Chinese, each owning anywhere from fifty to seven or eight hundred, while two large companies have in stock a thousand and twelve hundred, respectively. One of these companies manufactures its own ricshas, turning out a hundred a month. Women are employed to make the cushions for the back and seat. Several of the companies provide the men with uniforms. Generally it is only a coat, while the wearer’s ragged trousers show more ragged in contrast. In a single instance the clothes are washed every twenty-four hours in the company’s laundry and returned clean to the coolies. The Municipal Council has decreed that in the International Settlement ricsha coolies must be decently clad, but the rule is not strictly enforced. On the back of ricshas belonging to Chinese companies is written in Chinese the company’s name, which is generally rather poetic not to say moral in tone, such as “Able to Fly Co.,” “Everlasting Remembrance,” “Steadfast Righteousness.” One company’s ricshas exhibit above the license plate a small metal locomotive, highly suggestive of incomparable speed. A rubber-tired ricsha costs, when new, fifty or sixty dollars, and its rental per day is from thirty-five to forty cents. A coolie hiring a ricsha, after using it a few hours, or half a day, sublets it, and that man in turn often rents it to another, so that in the course of twenty-four hours, it is likely to pass through two, three, or perhaps four hands, consequently the number of ricsha coolies is naturally far in excess of the ricshas. Passengers pay either according to the time the ricsha is used, the regular tariff being twenty cents an hour (but if the poor fellow gets eight or ten cents he does well), or by the trip, say five cents for a run of a mile or a mile and a half. At night the coolie expects a trifle more, as he has to spend a cent to buy the candle that lights his paper lantern or tiny lamp. These are the prices for foreigners. Chinese as a rule give less. Ricshas are of two kinds, the high black ones and the low brown style. All the latter are furnished with rubber tires. Most of the high ones formerly were without them, and as they could be rented more cheaply in consequence, were much used by the poorer Chinese, but of late the Municipal Council has succeeded in banishing all such ricshas from the Settlement. Most of the worn-out ricshas are apparently bought up for use in the Chinese district, as it abounds in a multitude of rickety, ramshackle vehicles, probably purchased for a mere song. Many of them are pulled by young boys, scarcely more than children.

Ricsha coolies running in the International Settlement must have a license from the Municipal Council. If they are to travel beyond the limits of the Settlement they require in addition a French and a Chinese license. The license, in the form of a tin plate, is slipped into a groove at the back of the ricsha. It is furnished to the coolies by the companies owning the ricshas who pay into the city treasury a dollar a month for each one. The coolie loses his license if he commits a misdemeanor. Often for a very slight one, like blocking the road, generally in his eagerness to secure a passenger, he has his license taken from him by a Sikh policeman. Then the poor fellow is sorely troubled, for he can do no business without his license, and it is sometimes several days, or weeks, before it is restored, on the payment of a fine of forty cents. Once a month the ricshas in the Settlement must have their licenses renewed and be officially inspected.

At the examining station opposite the Honkew Market, between three and four hundred gather every day. An English policeman is in charge. One by one the ricshas are brought before him, while he and a Chinese assistant shake, pull, and pound them to see if they are in good condition. If any part shows signs of weakness it is wrenched off, the license withheld, and the ricsha sent back to the company that owns it for repairs. The companies are represented on these occasions by Chinese foremen. Occasionally the foreman is a forewoman. A regular habitué is an old wizened creature, with bound feet and half blind, but as the foreign officer aptly describes her, “Keen as a razor when it comes to looking after the fifty ricshas placed in her care.” Accidents to ricshas are not infrequent on the crowded streets of Shanghai. The marvel is that they do not occur oftener. Nearly all coolies run with their heads down and their minds,--well, who can tell where a coolie’s mind may be wandering? It is doubtless dormant most of the time. Nearly all coolies come from the lowest stratum of society, and having nothing else to give in exchange for bread, or rather rice, sell their strength. The literal interpretation of the word “coolie” is “The man who sells his strength.”

The ricsha coolie’s movements are erratic and impulsive. He seldom reasons. There are foreigners who will not risk their life in a ricsha and hair-breadth escapes occur nearly every day. An American lady was riding on one of the narrow, congested streets, when suddenly her coolie attempted to dash across the road between two electric cars approaching from opposite directions. He succeeded in clearing the track himself but the cars closed on the ricsha, crushing it to splinters. The woman with great presence of mind saved herself by grasping the front railing of one of the cars and holding to it until she could be drawn up. Another remarkable escape was that of a mother who, with her young baby, was riding on one of the quiet streets supposed to be perfectly safe. The coolie saw a man approaching on a bicycle, zigzaged several times in front of him, then utterly losing his nerve and wits, he dropped the shafts and ran away. The sudden stop and downward movement of the ricsha threw the baby out of its mother’s arms. The little thing fell, face down, on the hard macadamized road, and lay so still the mother feared the child was dead, but it proved to be only stunned, and except for some bad bruises, the next day seemed none the worse for its fall.

The ordinary wear and tear of ricshas is made good by the owners, but damages due to accidents are often charged to the coolie, at least in part. The amount for which he is responsible depends on the company. One large firm exacts two and three dollars for a tire. These prices are ruinous for the coolie, who is obliged to borrow the money to pay the fine, and money lenders demand exorbitant rates of interest. The coolie who is unable to pay his debt has no recourse but to run away, commit suicide, or go to the Debtor’s Prison. In the latter case, unless he has more fortunate friends or relatives who come to his rescue he is likely to remain a prisoner indefinitely.

It is interesting to see how quickly a fresh arrival from the West accustoms himself to ricsha riding. At first he is apt to inveigh against man-drawn vehicles, or if he gets into a ricsha, to sit lightly on the seat, with perhaps one foot hanging out at the side, with the idea of helping the coolie along, but presently he abandons himself to the enjoyment of the little, easy-running carriage, or as one enthusiastic woman described it “a grown-up’s perambulator,” and almost ceases to think of the puller as a human being. But let him stand on the Bund some day in the late afternoon and watch the stream of ricshas hurrying by. There is scarcely a coolie whose face is not drawn as if with pain, and many are actually contorted. Although a ricsha coolie’s life is far from a bed of roses, in his own happy-go-lucky way he does manage to get some pleasure out of it. One of the ricsha companies, with benevolent intentions, undertook to furnish free hot tea to its men at the company’s headquarters, but the plan didn’t work, for the reason that the coolies preferred to buy their own tea at a tea-house. Wretched as is the low-class tea-house, it is the coolies’ favorite gathering place, where, surrounded by their cronies, they can gossip, smoke, and gamble till necessity drives them forth to work again.

The coolies who come to the city in winter from farms and return to them in the spring, may be called gentlemen of means compared with the others. A very few, the number is almost negligible, are able to make ricsha pulling a paying business, as in the case of the man who gave up the position of “boy” at six dollars a month in a private family to become a ricsha coolie, because he said he could make more money.

Many articles are lost in the ricshas. A passenger gets out and hurries away, forgetting his bundle or umbrella, and unless he has thought to look at the number on the ricsha, that is the last he ever sees of it. Not always though. The narrow margin on which the poor coolie exists from day to day makes the exceptionally honest one stand out in all the brighter light. An elderly gentleman, carrying a very valuable package, left his ricsha with the package in it and went into a store. His business detained him some time and he finally returned home in a street car, entirely forgetting he had a ricsha waiting for him. After a considerable time the coolie, who had not observed the gentleman go away, went into the shop to look for him. A clerk said he had gone. Then was the coolie’s opportunity to run off with his prize. But no, in a moment he had brought in the package and laid it on the counter, asking anxiously how he could get it to the owner. As the gentleman was a regular customer at the shop, the clerk agreed to send it to his residence. That coolie not only received no reward for his honesty, since he slipped back into the crowd and it was impossible to identify him, but he lost time and fare as well. Another case was that of a lady who, in stepping from her ricsha, dropped a five dollar bill, which was discovered by the coolie after she had gone. Not being sure which house the lady had entered the coolie went from one to another until he found the owner of the money, to whom he restored it. It sometimes happens that dishonesty crops up where it is not looked for, and an unprincipled passenger, sad to relate, sometimes a foreigner, after using a ricsha for several hours, eludes his coolie and escapes the payment of fare by going into a shop or house and disappearing out another door.