Part 13

Agatha cast him a withering glance. Then she lifted her face to the escort. “Why--were--we--in Greene--Street?”

He was now startlingly scarlet. After a little indecision he took out his pad and wrote, “I was trying to shake the gipsies.” He showed the page to Agatha.

“Of course,” said she. Then, to the lieutenant, “He was trying to shake the gipsies.”

“He succeeded,” cried the man-gipsy. “He shook loose my four-dollar earrings and a twenty-dollar monkey.”

This statement was hailed with mirth from the rear. The maudlin occupants of Number 3 joined in noisily. Even the policemen smiled.

The next moment one of the latter gave a shout of triumph. “Lieutenant,” he announced excitedly, “this dago is wearin’ a wig!” He pointed at the black mop of hair that hung down over the temples of the man-gipsy.

The man-gipsy drew himself up haughtily. “I am _not_ a dago,” said he, with dignity. Then, to the lieutenant, “Your eminence, he insults me.”

Agatha’s eyes were keen. “The other one, too,” she whispered.

Officer Flynn seized the wide, scarlet kerchief on the gipsy woman’s head and gave it a jerk. It came away--with it a full and ropy coiffure.

“Stung!” cried the woman.

Now, shorn of its late protection, her head was masculine in appearance, the short, brown hair showing itself to be well cut and carefully kept. When Officer Flynn had plucked off the man-gipsy’s wig there was disclosed another head no less modishly barbered.

The lieutenant was a man of long experience.

“College,” said he.

The woman-gipsy bowed. “You are inspired.”

From behind them came sounds of suffering--the five gentlemen in the rear were bent to the floor. Seeing them, the gipsies fell to chortling shrilly.

The lieutenant was turning the leaves of the book. “Inspired nothin’,” said he. “Whin Oi see a youngster makin’ a jackass of himself----”

And it was then that something dawned upon Agatha: these were all friends of Mr. McVicar’s, and this was what he had meant when he spoke of their “annoying” her. But she was a college girl, and knew just how much fun could be gotten out of a lark--even a silly, sophomoric lark. She glanced over at Mr. McVicar and dimpled.

“An’, mebbe,” went on the lieutenant, almost agreeably, “this is a’ inittyaytion?”

“Something on that order,” said the woman-gipsy.

“It was all in the interest of science,” added the man-gipsy. “We were endeavouring to make the dumb speak.” Here he began to make finger-signs at Agatha’s escort.

Agatha, shocked by the cruelty of the jest, fairly whirled round upon the offender. Her reproof, however, remained unspoken; for there, between the gipsies and the door, advancing on quick foot, was an open-faced, shrewd-eyed young man. This person halted at the lieutenant’s elbow, and took the company in with swift comprehension. At the same time he drew a pencil from a breast pocket and a yellow pad from a sagging pocket lower down.

Agatha had only a second in which to wonder if he, too, were d-- and d-- when, “Aloysius,” said he to the lieutenant, “what’s doing?” He pointed at the wigs.

It was then that Agatha realised that she was in the presence of the danger that she (and Auntie) so much feared. The shrewd-eyed young man was a reporter! She turned helplessly to Mr. McVicar.

“But he sha’n’t have my picture,” she muttered.

Mr. McVicar looked down at her quickly--almost as if he had heard. Then his grey eyes went back to the lieutenant and the newspaper man. His hands were twitching.

The lieutenant glanced up. “Aw,” he said disgustedly, “it’s only a fool thrick.” Then, to the waiting line, “Ye kin all go.”

At this the reporter became excited. “But it ought to make a story. Have you got their names?” He sprang to the side of the woman-gipsy.

It was now that Mr. McVicar did an extraordinary thing. Without a moment’s hesitation he stepped between the reporter and the woman-gipsy and gave the latter a shove that sent her spinning backward. Then he turned to the desk.

“It is a trick,” he declared, “a mean, contemptible trick, and I am mostly to blame for it. But it has gone far enough.”

Agatha gave a cry of amazement. It was the deep voice she had heard when the officers were approaching. And it was his! This was not gurgling: this was speech! She sank upon a bench, her face hidden in the crook of one trembling arm, and began to sob wildly.

“Lieutenant,” went on the deep voice, “I ask you to save this young lady from notoriety.”

The lieutenant promptly leaned far over and addressed the woman-gipsy. “Ye git,” said he harshly, “an’ yer gang wid ye. An’ if Oi hear of y’ givin’ anny names----”

The woman-gipsy held up a defensive hand. “Now that the dumb hath spoken,” said she, “far be it from me to bring grief----”

“Hike!” interrupted the lieutenant.

The gipsies stole out, after them the five well-dressed young men. Next the officers saluted the desk and passed Agatha with pitying glances. Only the reporter remained.

“Say,” said the lieutenant to him, “Oi’ve give y’ manny a scoop, ain’t Oi?”

“Yes,” said the reporter, “you have.”

“Wull, thin. An’ d’ye know yere missin’ th’ story of yer loife this siccond?”

“For heaven’s sake! What is it?”

The lieutenant leaned toward him, dropping his voice dramatically. “Hist!” he exclaimed. “They’s a man dead in Brooklyn!” He gave a prodigious wink.

“Oh, I see. All right,” said the reporter. He waved a hand and went out.

Then Mr. McVicar began to speak again--to Agatha, and so quaveringly that the lieutenant knew the tears were close there, too. The lieutenant turned his back and fell to studying a map.

“I’ve been a coward and a cad,” said that quavering voice, “and you’ll never forgive me. But, honestly, I did it all because I--I wanted to be with you. So I pretended I was--was--uncle that morning that I telephoned. Every day I thought the truth would come out. And lots of times I came near skipping town. The fellows wouldn’t let me alone a minute--from the time I had to tell one of ’em (_you_ remember) that I was deaf and dumb. The fiends! Oh, _don’t_ cry so! I’d--I’d die if it’d do any good.”

Agatha raised her tear-wet face. “I’m not c-r-crying because I’m angry,” she sobbed, putting out her two hands to him. “I’m c-c-crying because you’re not d-- and d--.”

His strong arms caught her up then and held her close, and for all the silent, pent-up hours he had spent with her there now gushed forth a thousand whispered words of rapturous endearment. And he kissed her poor, trembling lips, her chin, her black-lashed eyelids--even the fluff of her hair.

“Dearest,” he whispered, “I loved you the second I spied you from behind that reference table.”

Agatha suddenly stopped her sobbing. Then she leaned away from him--and looked down. The plaid she saw above his half-shoes was red and brown at right angles upon a French-knotted ground of blue. It was not exactly the plaid that had been displayed that other day, but it was a full cousin to it.

The sun broke through the clouds then, for as she looked up once more a smile lit all that scarlet rounding of her cheeks where her dimples were. “Then, d-dear,” she began, both gloved hands creeping up to rest on his shoulders, “wh-what is your tr-truly name?”

A YELLOW MAN AND A WHITE

Fong Wu sat on the porch of his little square-fronted house, chanting into the twilight. Across his padded blouse of purple lay his _sam-yen_ banjo. And as, from time to time, his hymn to the Three Pure Ones was prolonged in high, fine quavers, like the uneven, squeaky notes of a woman’s voice, he ran his left hand up the slender neck of the instrument, rested a long nail of his right on its taut, snake’s-skin head, and lightly touched the strings; then, in quick, thin tones, they followed the song to Sang-Ching.

The warm shadows of a California summer night were settling down over the wooded hills and rocky gulches about Fong Wu’s, and there was little but his music to break the silence. Long since, the chickens had sleepily sought perches in the hen yard, with its high wall of rooty stumps and shakes, and on the branches of the Digger pine that towered beside it. Up the dry creek bed, a mile away, twinkled the lights of Whiskeytown; but no sounds from the homes of the white people came down to the lonely Chinese. If his clear treble was interrupted, it was by the cracking of a dry branch as a cotton-tail sped past on its way to a stagnant pool, or it was by a dark-emboldened coyote, howling, dog-like, at the moon which, white as the snow that eternally coifs the Sierras, was just rising above their distant cobalt line.

One year before, Fong Wu, heavily laden with his effects, had slipped out of the stage from Redding and found his way to a forsaken, ramshackle building below Whiskeytown. His coming had proved of no small interest. When the news finally got about that “a monkey” was living in “Sam Kennedy’s old place,” it was thought, for a while, that laundrying, thereafter, would be cheaply done. This hope, however, was soon dispelled. For, shortly after his arrival, as Fong Wu asked at the grocery store for mail, he met Radigan’s inquiry of “You do my washee, John?” with a grave shake of the head. Similar questions from others were met, later, in a similar way. Soon it became generally known that the “monkey at Sam Kennedy’s” did not do washing; so he was troubled no further.

Yet if Fong Wu did not work for the people of Whiskeytown, he was not, therefore, idle. Many a sunrise found him wandering through the chaparral thickets back of his house, digging here and there in the red soil for roots and herbs. These he took home, washed, tasted, and, perhaps, dried. His mornings were mainly spent in cooking for his abundantly supplied table, tending his fowls and house, and in making spotless and ironing smooth various undergarments--generous of sleeve and leg.

But of an afternoon, all petty duties were laid aside, and he sorted carefully into place upon his shelves numerous little bunches and boxes of dried herbs and numerous tiny phials of pungent liquid that had come to him by post; he filled wide sheets of foolscap with vertical lines of queer characters and consigned them to big, plainly addressed, well-stamped envelopes; he scanned closely the last newspapers from San Francisco, and read from volumes in divers tongues; and he pored over the treasured Taoist book, “The Road to Virtue.”

Sunday was his one break in the week’s routine. Then, the coolies who panned or cradled for gold in the tailings of near-by abandoned mines, gathered at Fong Wu’s. On such occasions, there was endless, lively chatter, a steady exchange of barbering--one man scraping another clean, to be, in turn, made hairless in a broad band about the poll and on cheek and chin--and much consuming of tasty chicken, dried fish, pork, rice, and melon seeds. To supplement all this, Fong Wu recounted the news: the arrival of a consul in San Francisco, the raid on a slave- or gambling-den, the progress of a tong war under the very noses of the baffled police, and the growth of Coast feeling against the continued, quiet immigration of Chinese. But of the social or political affairs of the Flowery Kingdom--of his own land beyond the sea, Fong Wu was consistently silent.

Added to his Sunday responsibilities as host and purveyor of news, Fong Wu had others. An ailing countryman, whether seized with malaria or suffering from an injury, found ready and efficient attention. The bark of dogwood, properly cooked, gave a liquid that killed the ague; and oil from a diminutive bottle, or a red powder whetted upon the skin with a silver piece, brought out the soreness of a bruise.

Thus, keeping his house, herb-hunting, writing, studying, entertaining, doctoring, Fong Wu lived on at Whiskeytown.

Each evening, daintily manipulating ivory chopsticks, he ate his supper of rice out of a dragon-bordered bowl. Then, when he had poured tea from a pot, all gold-encrusted--a cluster of blossoms nodding in a vase at his shoulder, the while--he went out upon the porch of the square-fronted house.

And there, as now, a scarlet-buttoned cap on his head, his black eyes soft with dreaming, his richly wrought sandals tapping the floor in time, his long queue--a smooth, shining serpent--in thick coils about his tawny neck, Fong Wu thrummed gently upon the three-stringed banjo, and, in peace, chanted into the twilight.

* * * * *

Flying hoofs scattered the gravel on the strip of road before Fong Wu’s. He looked through the gloom and saw a horse flash past, carrying a skirted rider toward Whiskeytown. His song died out. He let his banjo slip down until its round head rested between his feet. Then, he turned his face up the gulch.

Despite the dusk, he knew the traveller: Mrs. Anthony Barrett, who, with her husband, had recently come to live in a house near Stillwater. Every evening, when the heat was over, she went by, bound for the day’s mail at the post-office. Every evening, in the cool, Fong Wu saw her go, and sometimes she gave him a friendly nod.

Her mount was a spirited, mouse-dun mustang, with crop-ears, a roached mane, and the back markings of an Arab horse. She always rode at a run, sitting with easy erectness. A wide army hat rested snugly on her fair hair, and shaded a white forehead and level-looking eyes. But notwithstanding the sheltering brim, on her girlish face were set the glowing scarlet seals of wind and sun.

As he peered townward after her, Fong Wu heard the hurrying hoof beats grow gradually fainter and fainter--and cease. Presently the moon topped the pines on the foothills behind him, bathing the gulch in light. The road down which she would come sprang into view. He watched its farthest open point. In a few moments the hoof beats began again. Soon the glint of a light waist showed through the trees. Next, horse and rider rounded a curve at hand. Fong Wu leaned far forward.

And then, just as the mustang gained the strip of road before the square-fronted house, it gave a sudden, unlooked-for, outward leap, reared with a wild snort, and, whirling, dashed past the porch--riderless.

With an exclamation, Fong Wu flung his banjo aside and ran to the road. There under a manzanita bush, huddled and still, lay a figure. He caught it up, bore it to the porch, and put it gently down.

A brief examination, made with the deftness practice gives, showed him that no bones were broken. Squatting beside the unconscious woman, he next played slowly with his long-nailed fingers upon her pulse. Its beat reassured him. He lighted a lamp and held it above her. The scarlet of her cheeks was returning.

The sight of her, who was so strong and active, stretched weak and fainting, compelled Fong Wu into spoken comment. “The petal of a plum blossom,” he said compassionately, in his own tongue.

She stirred a little. He moved back. As, reviving, she opened her eyes, they fell upon him. But he was half-turned away, his face as blank and lifeless as a mask.

She gave a startled cry and sat up. “Me hurtee?” she asked him, adopting pidgin-English. “Me fallee off?”

Fong Wu rose. “You were thrown,” he answered gravely.

She coloured in confusion. “Pardon me,” she said, “for speaking to you as if you were a coolie.” Then, as she got feebly to her feet--“I believe my right arm is broken.”

“I have some knowledge of healing,” he declared; “let me look at it.” Before she could answer, he had ripped the sleeve away. “It is only a sprain,” he said. “Wait.” He went inside for an amber liquid and bandages. When he had laved the injured muscles, he bound them round.

“How did it happen?” she asked, as he worked. He was so courteous and professional that her alarm was gone.

“Your horse was frightened by a rattlesnake in the road. I heard it whir.”

She shuddered. “I ought to be thankful that I didn’t come my cropper on it,” she said, laughing nervously.

He went inside again, this time to prepare a cupful of herbs. When he offered her the draught, she screwed up her face over its nauseating fumes.

“If that acts as strongly as it tastes,” she said, after she had drunk it, “I’ll be well soon.”

“It is to keep away inflammation.”

“Oh! Can I go now?”

“Yes. But to-morrow return, and I will look at the arm.” He took the lamp away and replaced his red-buttoned cap with a black felt hat. Then he silently preceded her down the steps to the road. Only when the light of her home shone plainly ahead of them, did he leave her.

They had not spoken on the way. But as he bowed a good-night, she addressed him. “I thank you,” she said. “And may I ask your name?”

“Kwa”--he began, and stopped. Emotion for an instant softened his impassive countenance. He turned away. “Fong Wu,” he added, and was gone.

The following afternoon the crunch of cart wheels before the square-fronted house announced her coming. Fong Wu closed “The Book of Virtue,” and stepped out upon the porch.

A white man was seated beside her in the vehicle. As she sprang from it, light-footed and smiling, and mounted the steps, she indicated him politely to the Chinese.

“This is my husband,” she said. “I have told him how kind you were to me last night.”

Fong Wu nodded.

Barrett hastened to voice his gratitude. “I certainly am very much obliged to you,” he said. “My wife might have been bitten by the rattler, or she might have lain all night in pain if you hadn’t found her. And I want to say that your treatment was splendid. Why, her arm hasn’t swollen or hurt her. I’ll be hanged if I can see--you’re such a good doctor--why you stay in this----”

Fong Wu interrupted him. “I will wet the bandage with medicine,” he said, and entered the house.

They watched him with some curiosity as he treated the sprain and studied the pulse. When he brought out her second cup of steaming herbs, Mrs. Barrett looked up at him brightly.

“You know we’re up here for Mr. Barrett’s health,” she said. “A year or so after we were married, he was hurt in a railway collision. Since then, though his wounds healed nicely, he has never been quite well. Dr. Lord, our family physician, prescribed plenty of rough work, and a quiet place, far from the excitement of a town or city. Now, all this morning, when I realised how wonderful it was that my arm wasn’t aching, I’ve been urging my husband--what do you suppose?--to come and be examined by you!”

Fong Wu, for the first time, looked fully at the white man, marking the sallow, clayey face, with its dry, lined skin, its lustreless eyes and drooping lids.

Barrett scowled at his wife. “Nonsense, dear,” he said crossly; “you know very well that Lord would never forgive me.”

“But Fong Wu might help you, Anthony,” she declared.

Fong Wu’s black eyes were still fixed searchingly upon the white man. Before their scrutiny, soul-deep, the other’s faltered and fell.

“You might help him, mightn’t you, Fong Wu?” Mrs. Barrett repeated.

An expression, curious, keen, and full of meaning, was the answer. Then, “I might if he----” Fong Wu said, and paused.

Past Mrs. Barrett, whose back was toward her husband, the latter had shot a warning glance. “Come, come, Edith,” he cried irritably, “let’s get home.”

Mrs. Barrett emptied her cup bravely. “When shall we call again?” she asked.

“You need not come again,” Fong Wu replied. “Each day you have only to dampen the bandages from these.” He handed her a green-flowered box containing twelve tiny compartments; in each was a phial.

“And I sha’n’t have to take any more of this--this awful stuff?” she demanded gaily, giving back the cup.

“No.”

“Ah! And now, I want to thank you again, with all my heart. Here”--she reached into the pocket of her walking-skirt--“here is something for your trouble.” Two double-eagles lay on her open palm.

Fong Wu frowned at them. “I take no money,” he said, a trifle gruffly. And as she got into the cart, he closed the door of his home behind him.

It was a week before Mrs. Barrett again took up her rides for the mail. When she did, Fong Wu did not fail to be on his porch as she passed. For each evening, as she cantered up the road, spurring the mustang to its best paces, she reined to speak to him. And he met her greeting with unaccustomed good humour.

Then she went by one morning before sunrise, riding like the wind. A little later she repassed, whipping her horse at every gallop. Fong Wu, called to his door by the clatter, saw her face was white and drawn. At noon, going up to the post-office, he heard a bit of gossip that seemed to bear upon her unwonted trip. Radigan was rehearsing it excitedly to his wife, and the Chinese busied himself with his mail and listened--apparently unconcerned.

“I c’n tell you she ain’t afraid of anythin’, that Mrs. Barrett,” the post-master was saying; “neither th’ cayuse she rides or a critter on two legs. An’ that fancy little drug-clerk from ’Frisco got it straight from th’ shoulder.”

“S-s-sh!” admonished his wife, from the back of the office. “Isn’t there someone outside?”

“Naw, just th’ chink from Kennedy’s. Well, as I remarked, she did jus’ light into that dude. ‘It was criminal!’ she says, an’ her eyes snapped like a whip; ‘it was criminal! an’ if I find out for sure that you are guilty, I’ll put you where you’ll never do it again.’ Th’ young gent smirked at her an’ squirmed like a worm. ‘You’re wrong, Mrs. Barrett,’ he says, lookin’ like th’ meek puppy he is, ‘an’ you’ll have t’ look some place else for th’ person that done it.’ But she wouldn’t talk no longer--jus’ walked out, as mad as a hornet.”

“Well, well,” mused Mrs. Radigan. “I wonder what ’twas all about. ‘Criminal,’ she said, eh? That’s funny!” She walked to the front of the office and peeked through the wicket. But no one was loitering near except Fong Wu, and his face was the picture of dull indifference.

That night, long after the hour for Mrs. Barrett’s regular trip, and long past the time for his supper-song, Fong Wu heard slow, shuffling steps approach the house. A moment afterward, the knob of his door rattled. He put out his light and slipped a knife into his loose sleeve.

After some mumbling and moving about on the porch, a man called out to him. He recognised the voice.

“Fong Wu! Fong Wu!” it begged. “Let me in. I want to see you; I want to ask you for help--for something I need. Let me in; let me in.”

Fong Wu, without answering, relit his lamp, and, with the air of one who is at the same time both relieved and a witness of the expected, flung the door wide.

Then into the room, writhing as if in fearful agony, his hands palsied, his face a-drip and, except for dark blotches about the mouth, green-hued, his eyes wild and sunken, fell, rather than tottered, Anthony Barrett.

“Fong Wu,” he pleaded, from the floor at the other’s feet, “you helped my wife, when she was sick, now help me. I’m dying! I’m dying! Give it to me, for God’s sake! give it to me.” He caught at the skirt of Fong Wu’s blouse.

The Chinese retreated a little, scowling. “What do you want?” he asked.

A paroxysm of pain seized Barrett. He half rose and stumbled forward. “You know,” he panted, “you know. And if I don’t have some, I’ll die. I can’t get it anywhere else. She’s found me out, and scared the drug-clerk. Oh, just a little, old man, just a little!” He sank to the floor again.

“I can give you nothing,” said Fong Wu bluntly. “I do not keep--what you want.”

With a curse, Barrett was up again. “Oh, you don’t,” he screamed, leering frenziedly. “You yellow devil! You almond-eyed pigtail! But I know you do! And I must have it. Quick! quick!” He hung, clutching, on the edge of Fong Wu’s wide ironing-table, an ashen wreck. Fong Wu shook his head.