Chapter 1

The First Watch of the Night

"It must be admitted that life has some good in it," said one of the guests, leaning his elbow on the arm of his marble–backed chair, while he sat biting the root of a sugar water–lily.

"And some bad also," answered another, between fits of coughing, occasioned by having swallowed the prickly part of the delicate fin of a shark which had nearly choked him.

"Be philosophical," said an older man, who wore on his nose an enormous pair of wooden spectacles with large glasses. "To–day, one runs the risk of strangling, and tomorrow everything flows as smoothly as the sweet draughts of this nectar— such is life."

After saying these words, this easy–going epicure swallowed a glass of warm wine, the steam of which slowly escaped from a metal teapot.

"For my part," said a fourth guest, "life appears to be very acceptable when one does nothing, and has the means to afford to do nothing."

"That is a mistake," answered the fifth. "Happiness is to be found in study and work. To acquire the greatest amount of knowledge is the way to be happy."

"And to learn at last that one knows nothing."

"Is not that the commencement of wisdom?"

"What, then, is the end?"

"Wisdom has no end," philosophically answered the man with the spectacles. "To have common sense should be supreme satisfaction."

It was then that the first guest directly addressed the host, who occupied the upper end of the table— that is the worst place— as the laws of politeness exacted. Indifferent and inattentive the latter listened without saying anything during this discussion. "Come, let us hear what our host has to say? Does he find existence good or bad? Is he for or against it?"

The host carelessly cracked some melon seeds, and answered by disdainfully moving his lips like a man who takes no interest in anything. "Pooh!" said he.

This is the favorite word of indifferent people. It says everything, and means nothing. It is in every language, and has a place in every dictionary in the world. It is an articulated grimace.

The five guests who were entertained by this weary host pressed him with arguments, each in favor of his own proposition. They wanted his opinion. He tried to avoid answering, but replied by affirming that life had no good or bad in it. In his view, "It was an invention, insignificant enough, and having but little enjoyment in it."

"Ah, now our friend speaks; but why should he thus speak, since the rustle of a rose has not even troubled his repose?"

"And he is young yet."

"Young and rich."

"Perhaps too rich."

These remarks flew about like rockets from fireworks, without bringing a smile to the host's impassable physiognomy. He was satisfied to shrug his shoulders slightly, like a man who had never wished to turn over the leaves in the book of his life, and who had not even cut the first pages.

And yet this indifferent man was at least thirty–one years of age; he possessed a large fortune, enjoyed good health, was not without culture, his intelligence was above the average, and he had everything, which so many want, to make him one of the happiest men in the world. And why was he not happy?

"Why?"

The grave voice of the philosopher was now heard, speaking like the leader of a chorus. "Friend," he said, "if you are not happy here below it is because your happiness thus far has been only negative. It is with happiness as it is with health, to enjoy it one should sometimes be deprived of it. Now, have you never been ill? I mean to ask, rather, have you never been unfortunate? It is that which is wanting in your life. Who can appreciate happiness if misfortune has never, even for a moment, assailed him?"

And at this observation, full of wisdom, the philosopher, raising his glass full of the best champagne, said, "I wish that the sun of our host's life may be a little darkened, and that he may experience some sorrows." After which he emptied his glass.

The host made a nod of assent, and lapsed into his habitual apathy.

Where did this conversation take place? Was it in a European dining– room in Paris, London, Vienna, or St. Petersburg? Were these six guests assembled together in a restaurant in the Old or the New World? And who were they who, without having drunk to excess, were discussing these questions in the midst of a feast? They were not Frenchmen, you may rest assured, because they were not talking politics.

These six guests were seated in a medium–sized dining–room elegantly decorated. The last rays of the sun were streaming through the net–work of blue and orange window–glass, and past the open windows the breeze was full of the odor of natural flowers. A few lanterns mingled their variegated light with the dying light of day. Above the windows were sculptured and rich arabesques, representing celestial and terrestrial beauty, and animals and vegetables of a strange fauna and flora.

As to the servants, they were very prepossessing young girls, whose hair was mingled with lilies and chrysanthemums, and whose arms were coquettishly encircled with bracelets of gold. Smiling, they served or removed the dishes with one hand, while with the other each gracefully waved a large fan which restored the currents of the air.

The moment came at last when the young girls brought in, not, according to European fashion, finger–bowls containing perfumed water, but napkins saturated with warm water, which each of the guests passed over his face with extreme satisfaction.

It was only an interlude of the repast— an hour of luxurious rest, while the music filled up the moments, for soon a troupe of singers and musicians entered the room. The singers were young and pretty girls, of modest appearance and behavior; but what music and method was there— it was a mewing and harsh noise, without measure or tune, sometimes rising in sharp notes to the utmost limit of perception by the auditory nerves.

The six guests then left their seats, but only to pass from one table to another, which was done with great ceremony and compliments of all sorts. On this second table each found a small cup having a lid ornamented with a portrait of Bodhidharama, the celebrated Buddhist monk, standing on his legendary raft. Each of the guests received a pinch of tea, which he infused in the boiling water in his cup, without any sugar, and he drank it immediately.

And what tea! It was not to be feared that the house of Gibb, Gibb and Company, who supplied it, had adulterated it with a mixture of foreign leaves; or that it had already been subjected to a first infusion, and was only good to use in sweeping carpets; or that a dishonest preparer had colored it yellow with curcuma, or green with Prussian blue! It was imperial tea in all its purity, and its leaves were the first gathering in the month of March— those precious leaves which are like the flower itself, for the loss of the leaves causes the death of the plant. It was composed of those leaves which young children alone are allowed to gather, with carefully gloved hands.

The cups were still full, and the host, with his eyes fixed on vacancy and his elbow leaning on the table, expressed himself in these words: "My friends, listen to me without laughing; the die is cast. I am going to introduce into my life a new element, which may perhaps vary its monotony. Will it be for good or for evil? The future only can tell. This dinner to which I have invited you, is my farewell dinner to bachelor life. In fifteen days I shall be married, and―"

"And you will be the happiest of men," cried the optimist. "See, all the signs are in your favor."

Indeed, the lamps flickered, and cast a pale light around, the magpies chattered on the arabesques of the windows, and the little tea leaves floated perpendicularly in the cups. So many lucky omens could not fail.

They all congratulated their host, who received their compliments with the greatest coolness. But as he did not name the person destined to fill the part of the "new element to his happiness," and whom he had chosen, no one was indiscreet enough to interrogate him on the subject.

Yet, the philosopher's voice was not heard among the general concert of congratulations. With his arms crossed, his eyes partly closed, and an ironical smile on his lips, he seemed to approve those who paid the compliments no more than he did the one who was complimented.

The latter rose, placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, and in a voice that seemed less calm than usual, asked, "Am I then too old to marry?"

"No!"

"Too young?"

"No; neither too young nor too old."

"Do you think I am acting wrong?"

"Probably so."

"But she, whom I have chosen, and whom you know, has everything that is necessary to make me happy."

"I know it."

"Well, then?"

"But it is you who have not everything necessary to make you happy. To be bored during single life is bad, but to be bored double is worse."

"Am I, then, never to be happy?"

"No: not so long as you do not know what misfortune is."

"Misfortune cannot reach me."

"So much the worse; for then you are incurable."

"Ah! These philosophers," cried the youngest of the guests. "One should not listen to them. They are theoretical; they manufacture all kinds of theories which are impracticable. Get married, get married, my friend. I should do the same, had I not made a vow never to do anything. Get married; and, as the poets say, 'May the two phoenixes always appear to you tenderly united.' My friends, I drink to the success of our host."

"And I," answered the philosopher, "drink to the near interposition of some protecting divinity, who, in order to make him happy, will require him to pass through the trial of misfortune."

At this singular toast, the guests arose, brought their fists together as they do at games before beginning the struggle; and having alternately lowered and raised them while bowing their heads, took leave of each other.

From the description of the dining–room where the entertainment was given, and the strange bill of fare which composed it, as well as from the dress and manner of the guests, and perhaps from the singularity of the theories which they advanced, the reader has guessed that we are speaking of the Chinese, not of those "Celestials" who look as if they had been taken from some Chinese screen, or had escaped from some piece of pottery, but of the modern inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, already Europeanized by their studies, their voyages, and their frequent communication with the civilization of the West.

Indeed, it was in the saloon of one of the flower boats on the River of Pearls, at Canton, that the rich Kin–Fo, accompanied by the inseparable Wang, the philosopher, had just given an entertainment to four of the best friends of his youth. Pao–Shen, a mandarin of the fourth class, and of the order of the blue button; Yin–Pang, a rich silk merchant in Apothecary street; Tim, the high liver; and Houal, the literary man.

And this entertainment took place on the 27th day of the 4th moon, during the first of those five periods which so poetically divide the hours of the Chinese night.

Chapter 2

Antecedents

If Kin–Fo gave his farewell dinner to his Canton friends, it was because he had passed a part of his youth in the capital of the Province of Kouang–Tong. Of the numerous companions a rich and generous young man is sure to have, the four invited guests on the flower boat were the only ones left him at this time. As to the others, they were dispersed by the accidents of life; he would have looked in vain to have brought them together.

Kin–Fo lived in Shang–Hai at this time, and for a change of air he was spending a few days in Canton. This evening he intended to take the steamer which stops at the principal points along the coast, and return quietly home to his yamen.

Why Wang accompanied Kin–Fo was because the philosopher could never leave his pupil, who did not want for lessons. To tell the truth he paid no attention to them, they were so many maxims and wise sentences lost. The "theory machine," according to Tim, the high liver, was never weary of producing them.

Kin–Fo was a good type of the northern Chinamen who have never joined with the Tartars. You might not meet his equal in the southern provinces, where the high and low classes are more intimately blended with the Mandshurian race. Kin–Fo neither from his father nor his mother, whose ancestors kept secluded after the conquest, had a drop of Tartar blood in his veins. He was tall, well–built, fair rather than yellow, with straight eyebrows, and eyes following the horizontal, and but slightly raised toward the temple; he had a straight nose, and a face that was not flat. He would have been distinguished even among the finest specimens of Western people.

Indeed if Kin–Fo appeared like a Chinaman, it was because of his carefully shaven skull, his smooth, hairless brow and neck, and his magnificent queue, which started from the occiput and rolled down like a serpent of jet. Careful of his person, he wore a delicate mustache which made a half circle over his upper lip, and an imperial which was exactly like a rest seen in a piece of music. His nails were more than a centimeter long, a proof that he belonged to that category of lucky men who can live without work. Perhaps, too, his careless manner and his haughty bearing added somewhat to his distinguished appearance.

Besides, Kin–Fo was born at Pekin, an advantage of which the Chinese are very proud. To any one who would have asked him where he came from, he would have answered, "I come from above."

It was at Pekin that his father, Tchoung–Heou, lived when he was born, and he was six years old when the former settled at Shang–Hai. This worthy Chinaman, who came from an excellent family in the northern part of the empire, possessed, like his countrymen, a remarkable capacity for business. During the first years of his career, he traded and sold everything that the rich and populous territory produced: Such as paper goods from Swatow; silks from Sou–Tcheou; sugar candy from Formosa; tea from Hankow and Foochow; iron from Honan; and red and yellow copper from the province of Yunanne. All were to him articles of trade and commerce. During the years following his capital was doubled, owing to the creation of a new commerce, which might be called "The Coolie trade of the New World."

It is toward North America, and principally into the State of California, that the surplus population of China is directed, but this has been done in such great numbers that Congress has been obliged to take restrictive measures against the invasion, rather impolitely called "The yellow pest."

Rich companies undertake the transportation of these inexpensive emigrants. Five had charge of the enlisting in the five provinces of the Celestial Empire, and a sixth had quarters at San Francisco. The first five shipped the merchandise, and the sixth received them. An additional agency, called the Ting–Tong, was stationed where they were reshipped.

This requires an explanation. The Chinese are very willing to expatriate themselves to seek their fortunes with the "Melicans," as they call the population of the United States, but on one condition, that their bodies shall be faithfully brought back and buried in their native land. This is one of the principal conditions of the contract a sine qua non clause which is binding on these companies toward the emigrant, and nothing can avoid it. So that the Ting–Tong, otherwise called the "Agency of the Dead," which draws its funds from private sources, is charged with freighting the "corpse–steamers," which leave San Francisco fully loaded for Shang–Hai, Hong–Kong, or Tien–Tsin.

This new kind of business, and new source of profit, the able and enterprising Tchoung–Heou soon saw. At the time of his death, in the year 1866, he was a director in the Kouang–Than Company, in the province of that name, and sub–director of the treasury for the dead in San Francisco.

Kin–Fo having now no father or mother, was heir to a fortune valued at four millions of francs, which was invested in stock in the Central Bank of California, and he had the good sense to let it remain there. At the time he lost his father, the young heir, who was nineteen years old, would have been alone in the world, had it not been for Wang, the inseparable Wang, who filled the place of mentor and friend.

But who was this Wang? For seventeen years he had lived in the yamen at Shang–Hai, and he was the guest of the father before he became that of the son. But where did he come from? What were his antecedents? All these obscure questions Tchoung–Heou and Kin–Fo alone could answer; and if they had considered proper to do so, which was not probable, this is what they would have said:

Every one knows that China is the kingdom where insurrections last many years, and carry off hundreds of thousands of men. Now, in the seventeenth century, the celebrated dynasty of Ming, of Chinese origin, reigned in China three hundred years; when, in the year 1644, the chief, feeling unable to cope with the rebels who threatened the capital, asked aid of a Tartar king. The king hastened to his aid without being pressed to do so; he drove out the rebels, profited by the situation to overthrow him who had asked his aid, and he proclaimed his own son, Chun–Tche, emperor.

From this period, the Tartar authority was substituted for that of the Chinese, and the throne was occupied by Manchurian emperors. By degrees the two races, especially among the lower classes, came together; but among the rich families of the north the separation between the Chinese and the Tartars was maintained more strictly. The type still retains its characteristics, particularly in the center of the Western Provinces of the Empire. There are centered what are called "the irreconcilables," who remain faithful to the fallen dynasty.

Kin–Fo's father belonged to the latter class, and he did not belie the traditions of his family. A rising against the foreign power, even after a reign of three hundred years, would have found him ready to join it. His son, Kin–Fo, fully shared his political opinions.

In the year 1860, the Emperor S'Hiene–Fong declared war against England and France— a war ended by the treaty of Pekin, on the 25th of October of the same year. Before that date, a formidable uprising threatened the then reigning dynasty. The Tchang–Mao or the Tai–ping, the "long–haired rebels," took possession of Nan–King in 1853, and Shang–Hai in 1855. S'Hiene–Fong being dead, his son had great difficulty in repulsing the Tai–ping. Without the Viceroy Li and Prince Kong, and especially the English colonel, Gordon, he perhaps would not have been able to save his throne.

The Tai–ping, the declared enemies of the Tartars, having strongly organized for rebellion, wished to replace the ancient dynasty of the Ming. They formed four distinct bands; the first under a black banner, appointed to kill; the second under a red banner, to set fire; the third under a yellow banner, to pillage and rob; and the fourth, under a white banner, were commissioned to provision the other three.

There were important military operations in Kiang–Sou and Sou–Tcheou, and Kia–Hing, about five leagues distant from Shang–Hai, fell into the power of the rebels, and were recovered, not without great difficulty, by the imperial troops. Shang–Hai was menaced, and even attacked, on the 18th of August, 1860, at the time that Generals Grant and Montauban, commanding the Anglo–French army, were cannonading the forts of Pei–Ho.

Now, at this time Tchoung–Heou, Kin–Fo's father, was living near Shang–Hai, not far from the beautiful bridge which the Chinese engineers had thrown across the river at Sou–Tcheou. This rebellion of the Tai–ping he could not regard but with approval, since it was chiefly directed against the Tartar dynasty. On the evening of the 18th of August, after the rebels had been driven out of ShangHai, the door of Tchoung–Heou's house suddenly opened.

A fugitive, who had escaped from his pursuers, threw himself at the feet of Tchoung–Heou. This unfortunate man had no weapon with which to defend himself, and if he was given up to the imperial soldiers he was lost.

Kin–Fo's father was not the man to betray a Tai–ping who sought refuge in his house, and he shut the door, and said, "I do not wish to know, and I never shall know, who you are, what you have done, or whence you come; you are my guest, and for that reason you are safe at my house."

The fugitive wished to speak to express his acknowledgments, but he was unable from weakness.

"Your name?" asked Tchoung–Heou.

"Wang." It was indeed Wang, who was saved by the generosity of Tchoung–Heou— a generosity which would have cost the latter his life, if he was suspected of having given hospitality to a rebel.

A few years afterward the uprising of the rebels was forever repressed. In the year 1864 the Tai–ping chief, who was besieged at Nan–King, poisoned himself, to avoid falling into the hands of the imperials. Wang, from that day forward, remained in the house of his benefactor. He never referred to the past, and no one questioned him. The atrocities committed by the rebels were said to be frightful, and under what banner Wang had served— the yellow, red, black, or white— it was better to remain in ignorance of, and to believe that he belonged to the provisioning column.

Wang was pleased with his lot, and he continued to be the guest of this hospitable house. After Tchoung–Heou's death, his son had no desire to be separated from him, so much accustomed had he become to the company of this amiable person.

Indeed, at the time of this story who would have ever recognized a former Tai–ping, a murderer, a robber, or an incendiary from choice, in this philosopher of fifty–five years, this moralist in spectacles.

With his long, modest robe, and the sash around his waist rising toward his chest from growing obesity, with his head–dress regulated according to the imperial decree, wearing a fur hat with the rim raised around the crown, from whence fell tassels of red cord, did he not look like a worthy professor of philosophy, and one of those learned men who write fluently in the eighty thousand characters of Chinese writing, and like a savant of superior dialect receiving the first prize in the examination of doctors, with the right to pass under the gate of Pekin reserved for the "Sons of Heaven?" Perhaps, after all, the rebel had improved by contact with the honest Tchoung–Heou, and he had gradually entered into the study of speculative philosophy.

On the evening when Kin–Fo and Wang, who never left each other, were together at Canton, after the farewell dinner, they both went along the wharves to seek the steamer to take them quickly to Shang–Hai. Kin–Fo walked on in silence, and in a pensive mood. Wang looked round to the right and to the left, philosophizing to the moon and to the stars; passed smilingly under the gate of "Eternal Purity," which he did not find too high for him, and under the gate of "Eternal Joy," whose gates seemed to open on his own existence, and finally saw the pagoda of the "Five Hundred Divinities" vanishing in the distance.

Chapter 3

Kin-fo at Home

A yamen is a number of buildings, variously constructed, ranged according to a parallel line, which a second line of kiosks and pavilions cut across perpendicularly. Ordinarily, the yamen serves as a dwelling for mandarins of high rank, and belongs to the emperor; but it is not forbidden to wealthy Celestials to have one. It was in one of these sumptuous hotels that the wealthy Kin–Fo dwelt in Shang–Hai.

Wang and his pupil stopped at the principal gate opening on the vast inclosure, which surrounded the various constructions of the yamen and its garden and courtyards. If, instead of being the dwelling of a private person, it had been that of a mandarin magistrate, a large drum would have occupied the best place under the roof of the porch over the door, and where in the night as well as the day those of his deputies who might have to seek for justice would have knocked; but instead of this "drum" large porcelain jars ornamented the entrance to the yamen, which contained cold tea, and which were kept constantly filled by his servants.

These jars were for the benefit of passers–by, which did honor to the generosity of Kin–Fo. He was well and favorably regarded, as they say, by his neighbors in the east and the west.

On the arrival of the master, the servants of the house ran to the door to receive him. Valets–de–chambre, footmen, porters, chair–bearers, waiters, coachmen, and cooks, all who compose a Chinese household, formed into line under the orders of the steward. A dozen of coolies, engaged by the month for the coarse work, stood a little in the rear.

The steward welcomed the master to the house, who made a sign with his hand and passed rapidly on.

"Soun," he merely said.

"Soun," answered Wang, smiling. "If Soun were here, it would not be Soun."

"Where is he?" asked Kin–Fo.

The steward had to confess that neither he, nor any one, knew where he was. Now Soun was no less a person than the first valet–de–chambre, specially attached to Kin–Fo's person, and was one whom he could by no means dispense with.

Was Soun, then a model servant? No, he could not possibly have done his duty in a worse manner; he was absent–minded, awkward with his hands and tongue, a great eater, and a great coward; but he was a true Chinaman, faithful on the whole, and the only one possessed of the gift of moving his master. Did Kin–Fo find a necessity to get angry with Soun twenty times a day, yet if he only corrected him ten times, there was just so much less to rouse him from his habitual indolence, and put his bile in motion. It was evident that he was a hygienic servant.

Soun, like the most of Chinese servants, came of himself to be corrected when he deserved it. The blows of the rattan would be poured on his shoulders, but he hardly cared for that. What caused him to show more sensibility was the successive cuttings of his braided pigtail, which Kin–Fo made him undergo when he had committed any, grave fault.

Probably every one is aware how much the Chinaman values this singular appendage. The loss of his queue, or pigtail, is the first punishment applied to criminals. It is a dishonor for life, so that the unfortunate valet dreaded nothing so much as to be condemned to lose a piece of it. Four years before, when he entered Kin–Fo's service, his braid was one of the finest in the Celestial Empire, and measured over four feet, now it only measured two, so that Soun in two years would be entirely bald.

Wang and Kin–Fo, followed respectfully by the servants of the house, crossed the garden, where the trees, mostly set in porcelain vases, and cut in a surprising style of art, assumed the form of fantastic animals. Then they walked around the large basin containing the fishes, in which the water was hidden from view under the pale red flowers of the most beautiful of the native water–lilies in the Empire of Flowers. All that Chinese fancy, with European comfort, might be found in this luxurious dwelling.

Kin–Fo was a man of progress, and his tastes proved it. He was not averse to the importation of every modern Western invention. He belonged to that category of the Sons of Heaven, still too rare, who are charmed by the physical and chemical sciences. He was not one of those barbarians who cut the first telegraph wires which the house of Reynolds wished to establish as far as Wousung, with the view of ascertaining more quickly the arrival of English and American mails; nor was he one of those backward mandarins who, in order not to let the submarine cable from Shang–Hai to Hong–Kong be attached at any point whatsoever of the territory, obliged the electricians to fasten it on a boat in the open river.

Material progress was introduced into his house. Indeed, the telephone gave communication between the different buildings in his yamen, and electric bells connected the rooms in his house. During the cold weather he was not ashamed to have a fire, and he was more sensible in this respect than his fellow–citizens, who freeze under four or five suits of clothes.

The pupil of the philosopher Wang had all that was necessary to make him happy in his material, as well as his moral life. He had Soun to rouse him from his daily apathy. Yet even Soun was not sufficient to give him happiness.

It is true that, at the present moment, Soun, who was never where he ought to be, did not show himself. He had some grave fault, no doubt, to reproach himself with— something which he had done wrong during his master's absence; and he feared for his shoulders, habituated as he was to the rattan. Perchance he even trembled for his pigtail.

"Soun!" said Kin–Fo, as he entered the hall into which the rooms opened to the right and to the left, and his voice indicated an ill–repressed impatience.

"Soun!" repeated Wang, whose good advice and reproaches were always thrown away upon the incorrigible valet.

"Let some one find Soun, and have him brought to me," said Kin–Fo, addressing the steward, who set every one to searching for the lost one.

Wang and Kin–Fo were now alone. "Wisdom," said the philosopher, "commands the traveler who returns to his fireside to take some repose."

"Let us be wise," simply answered Wang's pupil, and after shaking the philosopher's hand, he directed his steps toward his apartment, while Wang sought his own chamber.

Kin–Fo, when alone, stretched himself on one of those soft lounges of European manufacture which a Chinese upholsterer could never have made so comfortable. In this position he began to meditate. Was it about his marriage with the amiable and handsome woman he was to make his companion for life? Yes; but that is not surprising, because he was on the eve of visiting her. This charming person did not reside in Shang–Hai, but in Pekin; and Kin–Fo considered that it would be only proper to announce to her his return to Shang–Hai, and his intention of soon visiting the capital of the Celestial Empire; and even if he were to show a desire and some impatience to see her, he did not think it would be out of place, for he had a true affection for her. Wang had proved to him by indisputable rules of logic that he really loved her, and this new element introduced into his life might perhaps call forth the unknown — that is, happiness. Kin–Fo was dreaming with his eyes half closed, and he would have fallen asleep, if he had not felt a sort of tickling in his right hand. Instinctively his fingers came together and seized a knotty body of reasonable thickness which they were undoubtedly accustomed to handle. He was not mistaken; it was a rattan which had been slipped into his right hand, and he heard, in a resigned tone of voice, the following words: "When master wishes."

Kin–Fo rose up, and by a very natural movement he brandished the correcting rattan. Soun stood before him presenting his shoulders in the posture of a patient, and supporting himself on the floor by one hand, he held a letter in the other.

"Well, here you are at last," cried Kin–Fo.

"Yes, yes," answered Soun; "I did not expect you until three o'clock; but I am ready when you wish."

Kin–Fo threw the rattan on the carpet. Soun, although naturally very yellow, had now become very pale. "If you offer your back, without any other explanation, it proves that you deserve something more," said the master. "What is the matter?"

"This letter."

"Well, what of it? Speak!" cried Kin–Fo, at the same time taking the letter which Soun presented to him.

"I very stupidly forgot to give it to you before you left for Canton."

"A week behind time, you rogue."

"I did wrong, my master."

"Come here."

"I am like a poor crab," said Soun, "that has no claws, and cannot walk— yes! Yes!"

This last yes was one of despair. Kin–Fo seized Soun by his pigtail, and with one clip of the scissors cut off the extreme end.

It is believed that claws grow instantaneously on the unhappy crab; this one, having first snatched from the carpet the precious part of the queue which had been cut off, scampered hastily away.

From twenty–four inches Soun's pigtail had become reduced to twenty–three.

Kin–Fo had now resumed his usual calmness, and thrown himself on the lounge once more, and was examining, like a man whom nothing hurries, the letter which had arrived a week ago. He was only displeased with Soun on account of his negligence, not on account of the delay. What could there be in a letter that would interest him? It would be interesting if it could only cause him an emotion. An emotion for him! He looked at it vacantly. The envelope, made of heavy linen paper, showed on the address and the reverse side sundry postmarks of a chocolate and wine color, with the picture of a man underneath the figure "2" and "six cents," which indicated that it came from the United States of America.

"Good!" said Kin–Fo, shrugging his shoulders; "a letter from my correspondent in San Francisco," and he threw the letter in the corner of a divan.

Indeed, what could his correspondent have to tell him? That the title deeds which composed almost all his fortune slept quietly in the vaults of the Central Bank in California, or that his stock had risen from fifteen to twenty per cent, or that the dividends to be distributed would exceed those of the preceding year? A few millions of dollars, more or less, was not sufficient to move him.

A few minutes later Kin–Fo took up the letter and mechanically tore the envelope; but, instead of reading it, his eyes only sought for the signature. "It is, indeed, from my correspondent," he said; "he can have nothing to say but about business, and to–morrow I will attend to business."

A second time Kin–Fo was about to throw the letter aside, when his attention was called to a word underlined several times on the second page. It was the word "indebtedness," to which the San Francisco correspondent evidently wished to attract the attention of his client at Shang–Hai.

Kin–Fo took up the letter again, and read it from the beginning to the end, not without a certain feeling of curiosity, rather surprising on his part. For a moment his eyebrows contracted, but a disdainful smile settled on his lips when he finished reading it.

Kin–Fo rose, walked about twenty steps, and approached the acoustic tube which placed him in direct communication with Wang; he was about to carry the mouthpiece to his lips when he changed his mind, let the rubber fall, and returning, threw himself on a divan. "Pooh!" said he.

"And she," he murmured—"she is really more interested in all this than I am."

He then approached a little table, on which stood a box of rare carving; but as he was about to open it, he stopped. "What was it, that her last letter said?" he murmured.

Instead of raising the box cover, he pressed a spring at one end, and immediately a sweet voice was heard: "My little elder brother, am I no longer to you like the flower 'Mei–houa' in the first moon, like the flower of the apricot in the second, and the flower of the peach–tree in the third? My dear precious jewel of a heart, a thousand, ten thousand greetings to you." It was the voice of a young woman, whose tender words were repeated by phonograph.

"Poor little younger sister," said Kin–Fo. Then opening the box, he took out from the apparatus the paper on which were the indented lines which had just reproduced the inflections of the absent voice, and replaced it with another.

Kin–Fo spoke in it for about a minute. By his voice, which was always calm and even, no one could recognize whether joy or sorrow influenced his thoughts. Kin–Fo spoke three or four sentences only. Having done this, the movement of the phonograph was suspended, he drew out the special paper on which the needle acting upon the membrane had traced oblique ridges, corresponding to the words spoken; then placing this paper in an envelope which he sealed, he wrote from right to left the following address:

"Madame Le–Ou, Cha–Coua Avenue, Pekin."

An electric bell soon brought a domestic. Orders were given to him to take this letter immediately to the post–office.

An hour later Kin–Fo slept peacefully, pressing in his arms his— "tchou–fou–jen" a kind of pillow of plaited bamboo, which maintains a coolness, very much prized in warm latitudes.

Chapter 4

Unwelcome Tidings

"You have no letter for me yet?"

"No, madame."

"How long the time appears to me, mother."

Thus spoke the charming Le–ou for the tenth time that day, in the boudoir of her house in Cha–Coua Avenue, Pekin. The old mother who answered her, and to whom she gave this appellation, usually bestowed in China on servants of a respectable age, was the grumbling and disagreeable Miss Nan.

Le–ou had married, when she was eighteen years of age, a learned man who had contributed to the famous work called "Sse–Khou–Tsuane–Chou," which was begun in the year 1773, and was to comprise 168,000 volumes, but up to the present time had only reached the 78,738th volume.

This learned man was twice her age, and died three years after this unequal union. The young widow was therefore left alone in the world when she was only twenty–one years old. Kin–Fo met her on a voyage which he made to Pekin about this time. Wang, who was acquainted with this charming person, drew Kin–Fo's attention to her, who gradually allowed himself to fall into the idea of changing his condition in life by becoming the husband of the handsome young widow. Le–ou was not insensible to the proposition made to her, and it was in this way that the marriage was decided upon, which was to be celebrated as soon as Kin–Fo had made the necessary arrangements at Shang–Hai and Pekin.

It is not common in the Celestial Empire for widows to marry again, not that they do not wish it as much as the others of their sex in Western countries, but because the wish is not shared by the opposite sex. If Kin–Fo was an exception to the rule, it was because he was eccentric, we know.

Le–ou, if she married again, would no longer have the right to pass under the commemorative arches which the emperor has sometimes erected in honor of women who had been faithful to a deceased husband— such as the Widow Soung, who never would leave her husband's tomb; of the Widow Koung–Kiang, who cut off an arm; and of the Widow Yen–Tchiang, who disfigured herself as a sign of conjugal grief. But Le–ou believed she could put her twenty years to better use. She would again assume that life of obedience which constitutes the whole role of a woman in the Chinese family; she would renounce speaking of outside matters, and conform to the precepts of the book "Li–nun" on domestic virtues, and the book "Nei–tso–pien," on the duties of marriage, and she might again find that consideration which the wife enjoys among the upper classes. So Le–ou, who was intelligent and well educated, understanding what place she would hold in the life of the rich man, tired of the world, and feeling an affection for him, and a desire to prove to him that happiness still exists here below, was resigned to her new lot.

The first husband had left this young widow, at the time of his death, in easy but moderate circumstances. The house in Cha–Coua Avenue was a modest one. The insupportable Nan was the only servant; but Le–ou put up with her disagreeable manners, which is peculiar to the servants of the Empire of Flowers.

It was in her dressing–room that the young lady passed the most of her time, the furniture of which would have seemed very plain were it not for the rich presents sent her for the past two months from Shang–Hai. A few pictures hung on the walls, and, among others, a valuable one by, the old painter, Huan–Tse–Nen.

This young Le–ou was a charming woman even to European eyes. She was fair, and not yellow; she had sweet soft eyes, raised near the temples; black hair, ornamented with peach–blossoms, fastened by pins of green jade; small teeth; and eyebrows defined with a delicate line of India ink. She used no honey or Spanish–white on her cheeks, as the beauties in the Celestial Empire generally do. This young widow had nothing to do with these artificial ingredients. She seldom went out of her house at Cha–Coua, and for that reason disdained to use the mask, common among Chinese women when they go out.

As for her toilet, nothing could be more simple or elegant. A long robe, with a white embroidered galloon at the hem, and underneath this she wore a plaited skirt; at her waist a plastron, adorned with braid in gold filigree; pantaloons attached to the belt and fastened over hose of Nan–King silk; pretty slippers, ornamented with pearls, completed her attire. It wanted nothing more to make the young widow charming, unless we add that her hands were delicate, and that she preserved her nails, that were long and rosy, in little silver cases carved with exquisite art. Her feet? Well, her feet were small, not on account of any deformity in consequence of that barbarous custom among the Chinese which is happily being done away with, but because nature had made them so.

"It cannot be possible that a letter has not come to–day," said Le–ou again; "go and see, mother."

"I have been to see," replied Miss Nan, very disrespectfully, and left the room, grumbling.

Le–ou tried to work to divert her mind, but she was thinking of Kin–Fo all the time, since she was embroidering for him a pair of cloth socks, whose manufacture is altogether confined to Chinese women, to whatever class they may belong. But her work soon fell from her hands. She rose, took two or three watermelon seeds from a box, and cracked them between her pretty white teeth. She then opened a book called "Nushun," a code of instructions intended to be read by all good wives daily.

"As spring is the most favorable season for the farmer, so is the dawn the most propitious moment of the day."

"Rise early, and do not yield to the wooing of sleep."

"Take care of the mulberry–tree and the hemp."

"Spin silk and cotton zealously."

"A woman's virtue is in being industrious and economical."

"Your neighbor will sing your praises."

This book was soon closed, for the fond Le–ou was not thinking of what she was reading.

"Where is he?" she asked herself. "He must have gone to Canton. Has he returned to Shang–Hai? When will he come to Pekin? Has the sea been propitious to him? May the Goddess Koanine aid him!"

She wished a reaction to the anxiety which had taken possession of her whole being. Her lute was there, her fingers ran over the chords, while her lips murmured the first words of the song, "Hands United," but she could not continue. "His letters always came promptly," she thought to herself; "and when I read them how they move my soul. Now instead of letters addressed only to my, eyes, I hear his voice itself."

Le–ou glanced at a phonograph which stood on a small table, and which was exactly like the one that Kin–Fo used at Shang–Hai. They could thus hear each other speak, in spite of the distance which separated them. But to–day, as for several days, the phonograph was silent, and said nothing of the thoughts of the absent one.

At this moment the old mother entered. "There is your letter," she said.

Nan went out after handing to Le–ou a letter post–marked Shang–Hai. A smile played on the lips of the young woman. Her eyes shone with a brilliant light. She tore open the envelope rapidly, without taking time to contemplate it, as was her custom.

It was not a letter which the envelope contained, but one of those oblique indented plates which, when adjusted in the phonograph, reproduce all the inflections of the human voice. "Ah! I like this even better," Le–ou cried, joyously, "for I can hear him speak."

The paper was placed on the roller of the phonograph, which a movement like clock–work turned, and Le–ou putting her ear to it, heard a voice she well knew say:

"Little Younger Sister— Ruin has carried away my riches, as the east wind blows away the yellow leaves of autumn. I do not wish to make another miserable by having her share my misery. Forget him on whom ten thousand misfortunes have fallen."

"Yours in despair, Kin–Fo."

What a blow for the young woman! A life more bitter than the bitter gentian awaited her now. Yes, the golden wind carried her last hopes with the fortune of him she loved. The love which Kin–Fo had for her, had it forever gone away? Did her lover only believe in the happiness which riches gives? Ah, poor Le–ou! She now resembled a kite, when the string to which it is attached is broken, slowly she sank to the ground.

Chapter 5

"The Centenary"

The following day the disdain for the things of this world did not leave Kin–Fo. With his usual pace, he left his home, crossed the river and directed his steps toward a handsome house standing between the Mission Church and the United States Consulate.

On the front of this house was a large copper plate, on which appeared this inscription:

The Centenary Life Insurance Company, Guaranteed Capital, $20,000,000. Principal Agent: William J. Bidulph.

Kin–Fo pushed open the door and found himself in an office divided into two compartments by a simple railing as high as his elbow. Several paper boxes, books with nickel clasps, an American safe with secret drawers, two or three tables, where the agent's clerks were working, and a secretary desk, which the Honorable William J. Bidulph reserved for himself. This comprised the furniture of the office, which looked more like the office in a Broadway store than one on the shores of the Wousung.

William J. Bidulph was the principal agent in China of the fire and life insurance company, whose headquarters were in Chicago. It was called the "Centenary," a good sign to draw customers.

The Centenary was renowned in the United States, and had branches in the five divisions of the world. It did an extensive business, which was boldly and liberally carried on, and was thus able to take every risk.

The Celestials were beginning to follow this modern current of ideas, which filled the coffers of companies of this kind. A great number of houses in the Central Empire were insured against fire, and the insurance risks in case of death, with their combinations, did not want Chinese signatures. The guarantee of the Centenary was already posted on doors in Shang–Hai, and, among other places, on the pillars of Kin–Fo's costly yamen. It was not, therefore, with the intention of insuring against fire that Wang's pupil went to visit the Honorable William J. Bidulph.

"Mr. Bidulph?" he asked, on entering. William J. Bidulph was there "in person," like a photographer always at the disposition of the public. He was correctly dressed in a black coat and white cravat, with a full beard, and a peculiar American manner.

"To whom have I the honor of speaking?" asked William J. Bidulph.

"To Mr. Kin–Fo, of Shang–Hai."

"Mr. Kin–Fo, one of the clients of the Centenary–policy No. 27,200?"

"The same."

"Shall I have the pleasure, sir, of being able to render you any service?"

"I would like to speak to you in private," answered Kin–Fo. The conversation between these two persons could be easily carried on, since William J. Bidulph spoke Chinese as well as Kin–Fo spoke English.

The rich client was then introduced, with the respect which was due him, into an inner office, hung with tapestry, and closed with double doors, where one might have plotted the overthrow of the dynasty of Tsing without fear of being heard by the most cunning tipaos in the Celestial Empire.

"Sir," said Kin–Fo, as soon as he was seated in a rocking–chair before a fireplace heated with gas, "I desire to negotiate with your company for the insurance of my life."

"Sir," answered William J. Bidulph, "there is nothing more simple. Two signatures, yours and mine, at the foot of a policy, and the insurance is effected, after a few preliminary formalities. But, sir, permit me to ask this question: Of course you desire to die at an advanced age— a very natural desire always?"

"Why?" asked Kin–Fo. "Ordinarily, life insurance indicates a fear of approaching death."

"Oh, sir," answered William J. Bidulph, in the most serious way in the world, "that fear is never entertained by the patrons of the Centenary. Does not its name indicate this? To be insured with us, is to take a long lease of life. I beg your pardon, but it is seldom that our insured do not pass their hundredth year— very rare, very rare. In their interest we ought to deprive them of life. But we do a superb business. I assure you, sir, that to be insured in the Centenary is a sure way to become a centenarian."

"Ah!" said Kin–Fo, quietly, looking at William J. Bidulph with his cold eye. The chief agent, as serious as a minister, had not the appearance of joking.

"However that may be," replied Kin–Fo, "I wish to insure my life for $200,000."

"We will say a policy for $200,000," answered William J. Bidulph, as he wrote this figure on a memorandum. The magnitude of the amount did not even cause him to raise his eyebrows.

"Against what risks do you intend to take an insurance, my dear sir?"

"All."

"The risks of travel by sea and land, and those of a residence outside of the limits of the Celestial Empire?"

"Yes."

"The risks of military service?"

"Yes."

"Then the premiums will be very high."

"I will pay what is necessary."

"It is agreed."

"But," added Kin–Fo, "there is another very important risk of which you do not speak."

"What is it?"

"Suicide. I thought the policies of the Centenary allowed insurance against suicide."

"Just so! Just so!" replied William J. Bidulph, rubbing his hands. "That is also a source of profit to us. You can rest assured that our clients are generally men who cling to life, and those who from excessive prudence insure against suicide never kill themselves."

"For all that," answered Kin–Fo, "for personal reasons I wish to insure against this risk also."

"Just as you wish, but the premium will be very high."

"I say, again, that I will pay whatever is necessary."

"I understand. We will therefore say," said William J. Bidulph, continuing to write on his memorandum, "risks of traveling by sea and land, and suicide."

"And on those conditions, what will the premiums to be paid amount to?" asked Kin–Fo.

"My dear sir," answered the principal agent, "our premiums are based on a mathematical precision which does honor to the Company. They are no longer, as formerly, on Duvillar's tables. Are you acquainted with Duvillar?"

"I never knew him."

"He was a remarkable statistician, but ancient, so ancient even that he is dead. At the time that he established his famous tables, which still serve as the scale for premiums in the most of the European companies which are behind the times, the average duration of life was less than it is at present, thanks to the general progress. We make a basis on a higher medium, and consequently more favorable to the insured, who pays less and lives longer."

"What will be the amount of my premium?" asked Kin–Fo, desirous of stopping the wordy agent.

"Sir," answered William J. Bidulph, "may I take the liberty of asking how old you are?"

"Thirty–one years."

"Well, at thirty–one, if it were only for ordinary risks, you would have to pay other companies two eighty–three per cent., but in the Centenary it would only be two seventy, which would annually make $5,400 on a capital of $200,000."

"And on the terms that I desire," said Kin–Fo, "insuring against every risk, even suicide— suicide above everything?"

"Sir," answered William J. Bidulph, in an amiable tone, after having consulted a printed table, "we cannot do this for you at less than twenty–five per cent."

"Which will be?"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

"And how do you wish the premium to be paid to you?"

"All at once, or in parts by the month, at the pleasure of the insured."

"Which would be for the first two months?"

"Eight thousand three hundred and thirty–two dollars, which, if paid to–day, the 30th of April," answered William J. Bidulph, "would cover you up to the 30th of June of the present year."

"Sir," answered Kin–Fo, "these conditions suit me–here is the premium for the first two months;" and he placed on the table a thick roll of bills which he drew from his pocket.

"Well, sir, very well," answered William J. Bidulph; "but, before signing the policy, there is one formality to be gone through with."

"What is it?"

"You must receive a visit from the physician of the Company."

"What is the object of the visit?"

"In order to see if you are in sound health, and that you have no organic complaint of a nature to shorten life–if, in short, you can give us guarantees of a long life."

"For what reason, since I insure even against duel and suicide?" observed Kin–Fo.

"Well, my dear sir," replied William J. Bidulph, still smiling, "a malady, the germ of which you might have, and which would carry you off in a few months, would cost us, in all, $200,000."

"My suicide would cost you that also, I suppose?" asked Kin–Fo.

"My dear sir," answered the principal agent, taking Kin–Fo's hand in his, "I have already had the pleasure of telling you that many of our clients insure against suicide, but they never commit suicide; besides, we are not prevented from watching over them—, but with the greatest discretion."

"Ah!" Said Kin–Fo.

"I will also add," said William J. Bidulph, "that all the clients of the Centenary insured against the risk of suicide are the ones who pay premiums the longest; but, between ourselves, why should the rich Mr. Kin–Fo contemplate suicide?"

"And why should the rich Mr. Kin–Fo get insured?"

"Oh," answered William J. Bidulph, "to be certain of living to be very old as a client of the Centenary." There was no use discussing with the principal agent of the celebrated Company—he was so positive in what he said.

"And now," he added, "for whose benefit is this insurance of $200,000 to be made?"

"There will be two beneficiaries," answered Kin–Fo, "one for $50,000 and the other for $150,000."

"We will say for the $50,000?"

"Mr. Wang."

"What! The philosopher Wang?"

"The same."

"And for the $150,000?"

"Madame Le–ou, of Pekin."

"Pekin," added William J. Bidulph, finishing his entry of the names of the beneficiaries. Then he resumed:

"What is Madame Le–ou's age?"

"Twenty–one," answered Kin–Fo.

"Oh," said the agent, "a young lady who will be quite old when she receives the amount of the policy."

"Why so, please?"

"Because you will live to be more than a hundred years of age, my dear sir. And about the philosopher, Wang –what age is he?"

"He is fifty–five."

"Well, this amiable man is sure of never receiving anything."

"That is to be seen, sir," said Kin–Fo, directing his steps toward the office door.

"Good–day," answered the Honorable William J. Bidulph, bowing to the new client of the Centenary.

The following day the doctor of the Company made Kin–Fo the usual visit. His report was: "A body of iron, muscles of steel, and lungs like organ bellows."

There was now nothing to prevent the Company from dealing with a man so solidly built. The policy was then signed. Neither Le–ou nor Wang, unless through unforeseen circumstances, would ever know what Kin–Fo had just done for them, until the day when the Centenary should be called to pay them the policy, the last generous act of the ex–millionaire.

Chapter 6

Preparing for Death

The $200,000 of the Centenary was in a very perilous condition, notwithstanding what the Honorable William J. Bidulph might think and say. Kin–Fo's scheme was not of that kind that on reflection one postpones indefinitely.

Completely ruined, Wang's pupil formally determined to end his existence, which, even in the time of his riches, brought him only sadness and weariness. The letter delivered by Soun, eight days after its arrival, had come from San Francisco. It gave notice of the suspension of payment of the Central Bank of California. Now Kin–Fo's fortune consisted almost entirely, as we know, of stock in this celebrated bank; and improbable as the news might appear, it was too true. The suspension of payment of the Central Bank of California was confirmed by the newspapers at Shang–Hai. The failure had been declared, and the fall in the stock had ruined Kin–Fo.

The sale of his house at Shang–Hai would not yield him a sufficient income. The $8,000 premium paid to the Centenary, and some boat stock of the Tien–Tsin Company, which, if sold that day would–hardly amount to anything worth while, now comprised his whole fortune.

A Western man, a Frenchman, or an Englishman, would have taken this new state of existence philosophically, and sought to have got up in the world again, by labor; but a Celestial believes that he has the right to think otherwise, and to act differently. It was voluntary death that Kin–Fo, like a true Chinaman, was going to, with that typical indifference characteristic of the yellow race.

The Chinaman has only a passive courage, but he possesses it in the highest degree. His indifference to death is truly extraordinary. When ill, he sees it approach with indifference. When condemned to death, and already in the hands of the executioner, he shows no signs of fear. The public executions, so frequent, the sight of horrible suffering, which are part of the penal laws in the Celestial Empire, have early made familiar to the Sons of Heaven the idea of abandoning without regret the things of this world; besides, it is not to be wondered at, since in all families this thought of death is a topic of conversation almost daily, which has its influence over the most ordinary acts of life. The worship of ancestors is found even among the poorest people. There is not a rich dwelling where there is not reserved a sort of domestic sanctuary, and there is not a miserable hut where may not be found some corner religiously kept apart for the relics of ancestors, in whose honor a day is celebrated in the second month. That is why one finds in the same shop, where children's cradles and wedding gifts are sold, a varied assortment of coffins, which form an article of Chinese commerce.

The furniture would be incomplete if a coffin were wanting in the mansion. The son considers it a duty to offer one to his father while living, and it is considered a great proof of tenderness. This coffin is placed in a special chamber. It is ornamented and taken care of; and when it has received the mortal remains, it is kept for many years with pious care. In short, respect for the dead is the basis of Chinese religion, and contributes to bind the family ties more closely.

Kin–Fo, therefore, more than any other person, owing to his temperament, looked with tranquility at the thought of putting an end to his days. He had insured the fate of the two beings in whom all his affection centered. What had he to regret now? Nothing. Suicide could not cause him any remorse. What is a crime in Western civilized countries, is nothing more than a lawful act, we might say, in the midst of that strange civilization of Eastern Asia.

Kin–Fo had made up his mind, and no influence could change him from putting it into execution, not even the influence of the philosopher Wang. Besides, the latter was in absolute ignorance of his pupil's designs. Soun was no wiser, and only observed one thing since his master's return; that was, that Kin–Fo showed himself more patient toward him, in not finding fault with his daily blunders.

Decidedly, Soun was arriving at the conclusion that he could not find a better master, and his precious pigtail wriggled on his back with security.

A Chinese proverb says:

"To be happy on earth, you must live at Canton, and die at Liao–Tcheou."

It is at Canton that every luxury of life is found, and it is at Liao–Tcheou that the best coffins are manufactured.

Kin–Fo did not fail to leave an order with the best house, that his last bed of repose might arrive in time. To be properly laid out for his last sleep is the constant thought of every Celestial who knows how to live.

At the same time Kin–Fo bought a white cock, whose part is to embody departing spirits, and seize in their flight one of the seven elements of which a Chinese soul is composed.

We see that if the pupil of the philosopher Wang showed himself indifferent to the details of life, he was much less so to those of death. He had to arrange the program for his funeral, and on that very day a beautiful sheet of paper, called rice paper, received Kin–Fo's last will.

After having bequeathed to the young widow his house at Shang–Hai, and to Wang a portrait of the Emperor Tai–ping, which the philosopher always regarded favorably. Kin–Fo wrote with a firm hand the order of march of the persons who were to assist at his obsequies.

In default of relations, of which he had none, he wished a party of friends, which he had, to appear at the head of the funeral procession, dressed in white, which is the mourning color of the Celestial Empire. Along the length of the streets as far as the tomb, which had been erected some time ago in the suburbs of Shang–Hai, were to extend a double row of servants charged with the burial. Then the hearse was to appear. It was an enormous palanquin, hung in violet silk, and embroidered with gold dragons, which fifty valets were to carry on their shoulders in the middle of a double row of bonzes. The priests, dressed in robes of gray, red, and yellow, reciting the last prayers, alternated with the thunder of gongs, the playing of flutes, and the noisy din of trumpets, six feet long, were to follow. At last the mourners' carriages, draped in white, were to close this sumptuous funeral procession, the expenses of which must exhaust the last resources of the opulent defunct. This program was really nothing very extraordinary: many funerals of this class pass through the streets of Canton, Shang–Hai, or Pekin, and the Celestials see nothing more than a natural homage given to the remains of him who is no more.

On the 20th of October a box, sent from Liao–Tcheou, arrived to the address of Kin–Fo, at his dwelling in ShangHai. It contained the coffin he had ordered, carefully packed. Neither Wang nor Soun, nor any of the servants in the yamen were surprised; for, we repeat, that there is not a Chinaman who is not anxious to possess in his lifetime the bed on which he is to sleep for eternity.

A letter had arrived that day from the desolate Le–ou–the young widow placed at the disposal of Kin–Fo the little that she possessed. Fortune was nothing to her; she could do without it. She loved him, and what did he want more? Could they not be happy in more modest circumstances? This letter, full of sincere affection, did not alter Kin–Fo's resolution. "My death alone can enrich her," he thought.

It only remained to decide in what way he should accomplish this last supreme act. Kin–Fo felt a sort of pleasure in planning the details, for he was in hopes that at the last moment an emotion, however fleeting as it might be, would make his heart beat.

Within the inclosure of the yamen rose four pretty kiosks, ornamented with all the fancy characteristic of Chinese decorations. They bore significant names, such as the "Pavilion of Happiness," which Kin–Fo never entered; the "Pavilion of Fortune," which he looked upon with disdain; the "Pavilion of Pleasure," the doors of which were now closed to him; the "Pavilion of Long Life," which he had resolved to destroy.

It was this last one that instinct led him to choose. He resolved to shut himself up in it at nightfall, and it was there, the following day, they were to find him happy in death. This point decided, how was he to die? Rip himself open like a Japanese? Strangle himself with a silk cord like a mandarin? Open his veins in a perfumed bath like an epicurean in ancient Rome? No. These proceedings had something brutal in them, and would be painful to his friends and servants. One or two grains of opium, mixed with some subtle poison, would be sufficient to make him pass from this world into the other without his being conscious of the change, carried in one of those dreams which converts slumber into eternal sleep.

The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon when Kin–Fo had only a few hours to live. He wished to take a last promenade and see the country once more around Shang–Hai, and the shores of the Houang–Pou, on which he had so often walked away his weariness. He left the yamen to return once more, and never leave it again.

The English territory, the little bridge over the creek, the French Concession, were crossed in an indolent manner, as he saw no necessity to hasten in this last hour. Passing along the wharf of the native port, he wound around the wall of Shang–Hai as far as the Roman Catholic Cathedral, whose cupola overlooks the southern suburbs. He then turned to the right, and quietly ascended the road which leads to the pagoda at Loung–Hao.

Kin–Fo was not a man who looked around him; so that two strangers dressed like Europeans, who had followed him when he left the yamen, did not even attract his attention. He did not see them, although they never lost sight of him. They walked at some distance behind him, walking when he walked, and stopping when he stopped. It was plain they were there to watch him. They were of medium height, and one would have said that they were like two pointer dogs with sharp eyes and fleet limbs.

Kin–Fo, after walking about a league around the country, retraced his steps. The two bloodhounds also retraced theirs.

Kin–Fo, on his return, saw two or three beggars, to whom he gave alms. Farther on several Chinese Christians, trained in their devotions by the French Sisters of Charity, crossed the road. Each was carrying a basket on her back, in which were contained some abandoned children. They have been appropriately called "the children's rag–pickers." And these unfortunate children, what are they but rags thrown in the gutter? Kin–Fo emptied his purse into the hands of these charitable sisters. They were surprised at this act on the part of a Celestial.

It was now evening, and Kin–Fo took the road by the wharf, to return to his home at Shang–Hai. The floating population were still astir, and singing and noise were heard everywhere. Kin–Fo listened; he was anxious to hear the last words that would fall on his ears.

A young Tankadere, guiding her boat through the somber waters of the Houang–Pou, sang thus:

"I deck my boat with a thousand flowers, Counting the hours; My prayers to the blue–god ever rise Homeward to turn my lover's eyes; My soul impassion'd ever cries, Will he come to–morrow?"

"To–morrow!" thought Kin–Fo to himself; "Where shall I be to–morrow?"

"I know not what land of cold or drought His steps have sought; Roaming beyond old China's wall Heedless what perils may befall; Ah! Could he hear my heart–sick call— He would come to–morrow."

"To seek for wealth, O, why didst thou stay Far, far away? Why dost thou tarry! The months glide by, Waiteth the priest the bands to tie, Phoenix to phoenix ever nigh; Come, O come to–morrow!"

The voice died away in the distance. Kin–Fo thought to himself, "Yes, perhaps riches are not everything in this world; but life is not worth living."

Half an hour afterward he entered his dwelling. The two strangers, who were following him up to that time, had to stop.

Kin–Fo quietly walked to the kiosk of "Long Life," opened the door and closed it again, and was alone in a little room lighted by a lantern which shed a soft glow around. On a table, which was made of a single piece of jade, stood a box containing a few grains of opium, mixed with a deadly poison, which Kin–Fo always had on hand in case of need. He took up two of these grains, placed them in one of those red–clay pipes which opium–eaters use, and began to light it.

"Why, how is this," said he, "not even an emotion at the moment when I am about to sleep never to rise again."

He hesitated a moment. "No," he cried, throwing the pipe away, which broke on the inlaid floor, "I must have some emotion, even if it be feeble. I must have it— and I will have it."

And leaving the kiosk with a quicker step than ordinary, he walked toward Wang's room.

Chapter 7

A Serious Contract Proposition

Wang had not yet gone to bed. He was lying on a divan; he was reading the last issue of the Pekin Gazette. When his eyebrows contracted, it was very certain that the paper paid some compliment to the reigning dynasty of Tsing.

Kin–Fo opened the door, entered the room, threw himself in an arm–chair, and said, "Wang, I have come to ask a favor of you."

"Ten thousand are at your service," answered the philosopher, letting fall the paper. "Speak— speak— my son, speak, without fear, and whatever it is, I will do it."

"The service which I require," said Kin–Fo, "is one of that kind that a friend can render but once; after that I will excuse you from the nine thousand nine hundred and ninety–nine others; but I must add that you are not to expect any thanks from me afterward."

"The most able interpreter of inexplicable things could not understand you— what is it?"

"Wang," said Kin–Fo, "I am ruined."

"Ah! Ah!" said the philosopher, with the tone of a man who has heard good rather than bad news.

"The letter which I found here on our return from Canton," said Kin–Fo, "has apprised me that the Central Bank of California has failed. Outside of this yamen and a few thousand dollars, which may enable me to live one or two months longer, I have nothing left."

"Then," said Wang, after looking at his pupil, "it is no longer the rich Kin–Fo to whom I am speaking."

"It is the poor Kin–Fo, whom poverty has never frightened."

"Well answered, my son," said the philosopher, rising.

"I have not, therefore, lost my time in inculcating to you those lessons of wisdom. Thus far you have only vegetated without passions or struggles. You will live now. Confucius has said, and the Talmud after him, 'That there are fewer misfortunes than one fears.' We shall now earn our daily rice. The 'Nun–Schum' teaches us that 'In life there are ups and downs.' The wheel of fortune is continually turning, and the spring wind is variable. Rich or poor, try to do your duty. Let us go."

And Wang, like a true philosopher, was about to quit the sumptuous habitation. Kin–Fo stopped him.

"I said," he resumed, "that poverty has never frightened me, but I will add that I have decided not to endure it."

"Ah!" said Wang, "what do you intend?"

"To die."

"Not to die," quietly answered the philosopher. "A man who has decided to end life says nothing to anybody."

"It would have been done already," replied Kin–Fo, with a calm equal to that of the philosopher, "had I not wished that my death should cause me at least one first and last emotion. Now, at the moment I was about to swallow one of those grains of opium that you know about, my heart beat so slow that I threw the poison away, and I have come to find you."

"Do you then wish, my friend, that we should die together?" asked Wang, smiling.

"No," said Kin–Fo; "I wish you to live."

"Why?"

"To kill me with your own hand."

At this unexpected proposition Wang did not even shudder, but Kin–Fo, who looked at him steadily in the face, saw a light in his eyes. The old Tai–ping was awakened in him; eighteen years had passed over his head without stifling the sanguinary instincts of his youth. To the son of him who had protected him he would not object to putting him out of existence, if he desired it. Yes, he, Wang the philosopher, would do this.

But this light in his eyes died out very soon. Wang assumed the usual look of a worthy man, a little more serious perhaps, and settling down again, he said, "And is this the favor that you ask of me?"

"Yes," replied Kin–Fo; "and the performance of this service will acquit you from all you owe to Tchoung–Heou and his son."

"What do you want to do?" simply asked the philosopher.

"On the 25th of June, the 28th of the 6th moon, which will be my 31st birthday, I wish to have ceased to live. I must fall by your hand, not knowing where or how. In each of the eighty thousand minutes which will remain to me of life, during the fifty–five days yet remaining, I must be filled with the thought, the hope, and the fear that my life will suddenly end. I must have before me those eighty thousand emotions, so plain, that, when the seven elements of my soul separate, I can cry out, 'At last I have lived!' "

Kin–Fo, contrary to his habit, had spoken with a certain animation, and it will be noticed that he had fixed on the sixth day before the expiration of his policy as the limit of his existence. This was acting like a prudent man, for in default of the payment of a new premium, a delay would cause his heirs to lose the insurance.

The philosopher listened gravely, casting a look at the portrait of the Tai–ping which he was to inherit, although he was not aware of it.

"You will not decline to fulfill the obligation you have promised, to give me the blow?" asked Kin–Fo.

Wang, with a gesture, indicated that he was ready. He had seen too many killed while fighting under the banners of the Tai–pings, but he added, "Do you thus renounce the chances that the True Master has given you to reach extreme old age?"

"I renounce them."

"Without any regrets?"

"Without a regret," answered Kin–Fo. "What! To be old, and resemble a piece of wood which can no longer be carved. If I do not desire to live rich, I should desire it less poor."

"And the young widow at Pekin," said Wang. "Do you forget the old proverb, 'Flowers with flowers; the willow with the willow; the union of two hearts makes a hundred years of spring?'"

"Against three hundred years of autumn, summer, and winter," replied Kin–Fo, shrugging his shoulders. "No; if Le–ou were poor, she would be miserable with me. On the contrary, my death will assure her a fortune."

"Have you done that?"

"Yes; and you, Wang, have $50,000 placed on my head."

"Ah!" simply replied the philosopher, "you answer every question."

"Yes, to every one, even to an objection which you have not yet made."

"What is it?"

"The danger which may follow, after my death, of your being suspected as my assassin."

"Oh," replied Wang; "it is only the blunderers and the cowards who allow themselves to be taken; besides, where would the merit be of rendering you this last service if I risked nothing?"

"None at all, Wang; but I prefer to give you security in that respect, and no one will ever dream of disturbing you."

Saying this, Kin–Fo approached a table, took up a sheet of paper, and, in clear handwriting, wrote the following lines:

"I have voluntarily killed myself through disgust and weariness of life. Kin–Fo."

He gave the paper to Wang. The philosopher read it in a low voice at first, then aloud; and, after doing this, he carefully folded it and placed it in his memorandum–book. Another gleam came into his eyes.

"Is this all serious on your part?" said he, regarding his pupil fixedly.

"Yes, serious."

"It will be no less serious on my part, then."

"Then before the 25th of June, at the latest, I shall have ceased to live."

"I do not know whether you will have ceased to live in the way that you understand it," replied the philosopher, gravely; "but you can rest assured you will be dead."

"Thank you, and good–by, Wang."

"Farewell, Kin–Fo."

And Kin–Fo quietly left the chamber of the philosopher.

Chapter 8

Suspense

"Well, Craig–Fry?" said the Hon. William J. Bidulph, the following day, to the two agents whom he had commissioned to watch the movements of the new client of the Centenary.

"Well," answered Craig, "we followed him yesterday during a long walk―"

"And," added Fry, "he certainly has not the appearance of a man who contemplates suicide. When night came we saw him to his own door, but which, unfortunately, we could not enter."

"And this morning?" asked William J. Bidulph.

"We learned," answered Craig, "that he was as safe as the bridge of Palikao."

The agents, Craig and Fry, were two pure–blooded Americans, cousins, in the employ of the Centenary, who might be taken for twins. They were so identified, that when one commenced a sentence, the other usually finished it. They had the same brain, the same thought, heart, stomach, and the same way of doing everything. It was four hands, arms, and legs united in one body. In a word, they were like the Siamese twins.

"Then," asked William J. Bidulph, "you have not yet been able to penetrate into the house?"

"Not—" said Craig

"Yet," said Fry.

"It may be difficult," replied the principal agent; "but it must be done; it is of importance that the Centenary not only earns the enormous premium, but it is of greater importance to save $200,000. Therefore, there are two months of watching, and perhaps more, if our new client renews his policy."

"There is a servant—" said Craig.

"Whom we might bribe—" said Fry

"Ah," said Bidulph, "stick to the servant— buy him. He must be sensible to the sound of taels; and taels you shall not want, even although you may have to exhaust the three thousand formalities of civility which Chinese etiquette requires. You will not regret the pains you have taken."

"It shall be—" said Craig.

"Done," replied Fry. And those were the reasons why Craig and Fry wished to put themselves on a familiar footing with Soun. Now, Soun was not a man to resist taels, with the courteous offer of several glasses of American liquor.

Craig and Fry soon learned from Soun all that they wished to know for their interest, which amounted to this: Had Kin–Fo changed his style of living? No; except that he scolded his valet less, that the scissors were not used so often to cut off his pigtail, and that the rattan was used less on his shoulders. Had Kin–Fo any deadly weapon about him? No; for he did not belong to that respectable category of amateurs who use deadly weapons. What did he eat at his meals? Some simple dishes. Did he rise early? At five o'clock. Did he go to bed early? At ten o'clock, which was his custom since Soun had known him. Was he sad, preoccupied, or wearied with life? He was not a very cheerful man, indeed. Oh, no! Nevertheless, some days he enjoyed the things of this life. Yes— Soun found him less indifferent, like a man who is waiting— for what—? He could not tell.

Finally, did his master possess any poisonous substance which he could use? He had none any longer, for that very morning they had thrown by his orders into the Houang–Pou a dozen of little globules which were poisonous.

In all this, there was nothing to alarm the principal agent of the Centenary. No. The rich Kin–Fo, whose circumstances no one except Wang was aware of, appeared to enjoy life. However this may be, Craig and Fry were to continue to make inquiries about everything their client did. Thus the two inseparables continued to question Soun, who took pleasure in conversing with such amiable men.

It would be going too far to say that the hero of this story clung to life more tenaciously since his resolution to get rid of it; but he did not want for emotions. He had placed Damocles' sword over his head, and this sword was sure to fall on him some day. Was it to be to–day, or tomorrow? This morning, or this evening? On this point there was some doubt, and hence a movement of the heart, new to him. Besides, since the exchange of words between him and Wang, he saw less of him. Either the philosopher left the house oftener than he was accustomed, or he shut himself up in his room. Kin–Fo did not go in search of him; that was not his place, and he was ignorant of how Wang passed his time. Perhaps, in preparing some ambush for him. An old Tai–ping must have a great many ways of dispatching a man. From this Kin–Fo's curiosity was aroused; a new element of interest was afforded him. However, the master and pupil met at the same table; but there was no allusion made to their future position of assassin and assassinated— they talked about other things. Wang was more serious than usual, often turned his eyes away, and seemed to be more preoccupied. The man who was so communicative had now become silent and sad. A great eater formerly, like every philosopher who has a good stomach, the most delicate dishes did not tempt him, and the wine no longer consoled him.

Kin–Fo tried to put him at his ease. He tasted of every dish, and it followed that he ate more than usual; hence a new sensation, and he relished his dinners, which agreed with him; it could not be that Wang intended to poison him. He afforded Wang every facility to accomplish his deed. Kin–Fo left his chamber door open, that the philosopher might enter and deal the fatal blow while he was awake or asleep; all that Kin–Fo expected was, that his hand might be swift, and the blow fatal. But his emotions were changing; and after the first few nights he was so accustomed to expect the fatal blow, that he slept soundly and awoke every morning fresh and bright. Things could not always remain thus.

The thought often occurred to Kin–Fo, that Wang would hesitate before killing him in the house where he had been so hospitably entertained. He resolved to put him more at his ease on that point, and we find him running about the country, seeking isolated roads, staying out late in the worst places in Shang–Hai, where robbery and murders were committed daily. He walked through the streets at all hours of the night, jostled by drunken men of all nations, but he was safe and sound. He did not see Craig and Fry, who followed him everywhere, ready to give him help in case of need. If matters went on in this way, Kin–Fo would get accustomed to this new mode of existence, and perhaps weariness would return.

One day chance aroused a new sensation in him. He passed the door of the philosopher's room. Wang was trying the point of a dagger, and wetting it with some liquid in a blue glass bottle. As Kin–Fo glanced into the room the philosopher brandished the dagger around, in order to try it. Kin–Fo's face changed at the sight of this, and the blood mounted to his eyes; he thought to himself, "this is the day in which he is to perform the deed." He discreetly retired, without being seen or heard. Kin–Fo did not leave his room the rest of the day, nor did the philosopher make his appearance either. Kin–Fo went to bed as usual, and rose next morning as a healthy man does.

Ten days had now elapsed, but Wang had two months still to perform his promise. "I have given him more time than is necessary," said Kin–Fo; and he feared that Wang had repented of his promise.

Kin–Fo observed, however, that the philosopher made more visits than usual to the ancestor's room, where the coffin was stored, and he was delighted to hear from Soun than Wang had ordered him to brush and clean it, and keep it in readiness.

The 13th, 14th, and 15th of May passed. There was nothing new.

Did Wang intend to let the time pass, and only pay his debt when it was due, as is the custom with merchants? In that case there would be no emotion or surprise for Kin–Fo.

A significant occurrence came to the knowledge of Kin–Fo on the morning of the 16th of May, about six o'clock. He had, had a bad night, and, on waking, was still under the influence of a horrid dream. Prince Ien, the sovereign judge of the Chinese hell, had condemned him not to appear before him until the twelfth–hundreth moon should rise above the horizon of the Celestial Empire. A century still to live— a whole century!

Kin–Fo was therefore in bad humor, for he believed everything was conspiring against him, and when Soun came to assist him to dress, he accosted him angrily: "Go to the devil."

"No," answered Soun, "not before I have told you."

"What?"

"That Mr. Wang―"

"Wang—! What has Wang done?" said Kin–Fo, seizing Soun by his pigtail. "What has he done?"

"My master," answered Soun, who wriggled like a worm, "he has ordered us to carry your coffin into the 'Pavilion of Long Life,' and―"

"Has he done that?" cried Kin–Fo, whose face lighted up. "Go, Soun— go, my friend! Stop; here are ten taels; and be careful to execute all Wang's orders."

Thereupon Soun was astonished, and repeated to himself:

"Decidedly, master is crazy; but at least he is generous."

This time Kin–Fo did not doubt that the Tai–ping intended to give the fatal blow in the "Pavilion of Long Life," where he himself had determined to die. The catastrophe was now approaching. How long the day appeared to Kin–Fo. Finally the sun disappeared, and the shadows of night surrounded the yamen.

Kin–Fo went to the pavilion in the hope of never leaving it alive. He extended himself on a soft divan, which seemed to be made for long repose, and he waited. Then the recollections of his useless life passed before his mind— his weariness, his disgust, all that riches could not conquer, and all that poverty might have increased.

One bright light illumined his life, which had no attraction during his opulence: it was the affection which he felt for the young widow. This sentiment moved his heart when it was about ceasing to beat. What! Make poor Le–ou as miserable as himself— never!

The fourth period, which precedes the dawn, passed, causing Kin–Fo, the liveliest emotions. He listened anxiously. He tried to hear the least noise, while his eyes looked into the darkness. More than once he thought he heard the door open, pushed by some prudent hand. He thought without doubt that Wang hoped to find him asleep, and would strike him in his sleep. Then a reaction took place in him; he feared and desired at the same time this visit of the Tai–ping. The dawn appeared, and the day was slowly approaching. Suddenly the door was opened; Kin–Fo arose, having lived in this last second more than he had done in his whole lifetime.

Soun was before him, with a letter in his hand. "In great haste," Soun simply said.

Kin–Fo took the letter, which bore the San Francisco postmark. He opened the envelope, read it rapidly, and rushed out of the "Pavilion of Long Life."

"Wang, Wang!" he cried. In an instant he flung open the door and was in the philosopher's room.

Wang was not there. Wang had not slept in the house. The servants, on hearing Kin–Fo's cries, ran to him; they searched the yamen, but it was evident that Wang had disappeared without leaving any traces.

Chapter 9

Inverted Circumstances

"Yes, Mr. Bidulph, a simple stock–jobbing operation, in the American style," said Kin–Fo to the principal agent of the insurance company.

The Honorable William J. Bidulph laughed with the aid of a connoisseur, and observed: "It was indeed well played for everybody was taken in."

"My own correspondent even," remarked Kin–Fo; "for eight days afterward they paid with open doors; there was no failure, the news was false, but the deed was done, and the stock, which had depreciated eight per cent., was bought in by the Central Bank at the lowest rate; and when the director was asked the cause of the failure, he answered amiably, 'One hundred and seventy–five per cent.' This is what my correspondent writes me in the letter I received this morning, at the moment when I thought myself absolutely ruined."

"Did you have any idea of taking your own life?" cried William J. Bidulph.

"No," answered Kin–Fo; "but I thought I might be assassinated."

"Assassinated?"

"By my written authority— an assassination agreed upon, and which would have cost you―"

"Two hundred thousand dollars," answered Mr. Bidulph, "since all risks against death were taken. Ah, we should have regretted your loss, my dear sir."

"On account of the amount?"

Mr. Bidulph took his client's hand and shook it cordially in the American style. "But I do not understand you," he added.

"You will understand," replied Kin–Fo; and he told him of the engagement entered into by him with a man in whom he had confidence, and who guaranteed every immunity. The grave feature was that the promise would be fulfilled; the pledge would be kept, without the shadow of a doubt.

"Is this man a friend?" asked the agent.

"He is," answered Kin–Fo; "and my death is worth $50,000 to him."

"Fifty thousand dollars!" cried Mr. Bidulph. "Then it is Mr. Wang?"

"The same."

"A philosopher! He would never kill you."

Kin–Fo was about to say, "This philosopher is an old Tai–ping. During the half of his life he has committed more murders than would ruin the Centenary if they had been insured there. For the last eighteen years his ferocious instincts have been restrained. Now the opportunity is offered him, and he believes me to be ruined and determined to die, and knowing that he will get a small fortune by my death, he will not hesitate."

Kin–Fo said nothing of this, however, for it would compromise Wang, whom, perhaps, William J. Bidulph would not have hesitated to denounce to the governor of the province as a former Tai–ping. That would have saved Kin–Fo, no doubt, but Wang would have been lost.

"Well," said the agent, "there is a simple thing to do."

"What is it?"

"You must tell Mr. Wang that the contract is broken, and get back the compromising letter."

"That is easier said than done," answered Kin–Fo.

"Wang has disappeared since yesterday, and no one knows his whereabouts."

"Ah!" said the agent, rather perplexed. "And now, my dear sir, you no longer wish to die," he said, looking at Kin–Fo.

"No," he answered. "The stroke of the Central Bank in California has doubled my fortune, and I am going to get married. But I must find Wang first; the time agreed upon has not yet expired."

"When does it expire?"

"On the 25th of June. And during the interval the Centenary runs great risk, and it should take measures in consequence."

"And find the philosopher," said the Honorable William J. Bidulph.

He promenaded up and down with his hands behind his back, then said, "Well, we will find this man, even if he is hidden in the bowels of the earth; and until then we shall prevent any attempt at assassination, as we have prevented you from committing suicide."

"What do you mean?" asked Kin–Fo.

"This: that since the day the policy was signed, the 30th of April last, two of my detectives have followed you and watched your movements."

"I have not observed them."

"Ah, they are discreet men. I should like to introduce them to you, now there is no necessity to hide their movements unless from Mr. Wang."

"Certainly," answered Kin–Fo.

"Craig–Fry should be here since you are here," and William J. Bidulph cried out, "Craig–Fry!"

Craig and Fry were indeed there behind the door of the private office. They had tracked Kin–Fo to the Centenary office, and were waiting for him.

Now, there were two courses, as the Honorable William J. Bidulph observed. The detectives must remain carefully shut up in Kin–Fo's house at Shang–Hai, so that Wang could not enter without their knowledge, or else find Wang, who must be made to give up the letter, which must be considered null and void.

"The first plan is of no use," said Kin–Fo. "Wang knows how to come to me without being seen, since my house is his; he must be found at any cost."

"You are right, sir," answered William J. Bidulph.

"The surest way is to find Wang— and he must be found."

"Dead or—" said Craig.

"Alive," concluded Fry.

"No, living," cried Kin–Fo. "I do not intend that Wang shall be in danger a moment through my fault."

"Craig and Fry," added William J. Bidulph, "you are responsible for our client for seventy–seven days longer, and until the 30th of next June he will be worth to us two hundred thousand dollars."

Thereupon the client and the principal agent of the Centenary took leave of each other. Ten minutes later, Kin–Fo, escorted by his two body–guards, who were not to leave him again, entered the yamen.

When Soun saw Craig and Fry officially installed in the house, he felt some regret. There would be no more answers or taels; besides, his master began to abuse him again. Unfortunate Soun! What would he have said had he known what the future had in store for him?

The first care Kin–Fo took was to phonograph to Cha–Coua Avenue, Pekin, the change of fortune which made him richer than before. The young lady heard the voice again of him whom she believed to be lost to her forever. He would see his little younger sister again. The seventh moon would not pass before he would see her, never to leave her again; having refused to make her miserable, he did not wish to run the risk of making her a widow. Le–ou did not quite understand what this last phrase meant. She only knew one thing; that was, that her lover had returned, and that before two months he would be with her. On that day there was not a happier woman than the young widow in all the Celestial Empire.

A complete reaction had taken place in Kin–Fo's ideas–now become a fourfold millionaire— from the operations of the Central Bank in California. He intended to live, and to live well. Twenty days of emotions had changed him. Neither the Mandarin Pao–Shen, nor the Merchant Yin–Pang, nor Tim the high liver, nor Houal the literary man would have recognized in him the indifferent host who bade them good–by on one of the flower—! Boats on the River of Pearls. Wang would not have believed his eyes were he there, but he had disappeared. He did not come back to the house at Shang–Hai.

Eight days later, on the 24th of May, no news was heard of the philosopher; vainly did Kin–Fo, Craig, and Fry search the districts, the shops, and the suburbs of Shang–Hai, and the most skillful detectives of the police searched in vain for him about the country. The philosopher could not be found.

Craig and Fry became more uneasy, and increased their precautions. Neither by day nor by night did they lose sight of their client; they eat at the same table with him, and slept in the same room. They tried to persuade him to wear a steel breast–plate in case he was struck with a dagger, and to eat only eggs in the shell to prevent him being poisoned. Kin–Fo sent them away. Why not shut him up for two months in the Centenary safe under the pretext that he was worth $200,000?

Then William J. Bidulph, always practical, proposed to his client to return him the premium and destroy the policy.

"I am sorry," said Kin–Fo, "but the thing is done, and you must take the consequences."

"Well, let it be so," said the agent, who had to submit to what he could not avoid. "You are right. You will never be better guarded than by us."

"Nor for better value," replied Kin–Fo.

Chapter 10

Kin-fo Becomes Celebrated

Still Wang could not be found.

This complication disturbed the calm of the agent of the Centenary. At first he had thought that Wang would not fulfill his promise, but now he began to believe that nothing was impossible in that strange country which they call the Celestial Empire. He was soon of the same opinion as Kin–Fo, that if they could not find Wang, the philosopher would keep his word. His disappearance even indicated a project of attacking his pupil when he least expected it, like a thunderbolt, and striking him to the heart. After placing the letter on the body of his victim, he would quietly present himself at the office of the Centenary to claim his insurance.

Wang must, therefore, be notified. The Honorable William J. Bidulph had to use some indirect means. In a few days notices were forwarded to the different Chinese newspapers, and telegrams were sent to the foreign journals in both worlds: "Mr. Wang, of Shang–Hai, is requested to consider the agreement made between Mr. Kin–Fo and himself, under date the 2nd of May last, as canceled; the said Mr. Kin–Fo having but one desire, and that is to die a centenarian."

This strange advertisement was soon followed by another more practical: "Two thousand dollars to whoever will make known to William J. Bidulph, the principal agent of the Centenary at Shang–Hai, the present residence of Mr. Wang, of said city."

That the philosopher was running around the world during the fifty–five days given him to fulfill his promise, there was no reason to suppose. It was more probable that he was concealed in the suburbs of Shang–Hai; but the Honorable William J. Bidulph did not believe he could use too many precautions.

Several days passed, and there was no change in the situation of affairs. The advertisements were reproduced in profusion, under the familiar American style: "Wang, Wang, Wang," on one side, and "Kin–Fo, Kin–Fo, Kin–Fo," on the other. This had the effect of creating general laughter.

As far as the remotest provinces of the Celestial Empire people cried out in jest, "Where is Wang?" "Who has seen Wang?" "Where does Wang live?" "What is Wang doing?"

"Wang! Wang! Wang!" cried the little Chinese children in the streets.

The advertisements were soon in the mouths of everybody, and Kin–Fo, who wished to become a centenarian, who sought for longevity, like the celebrated elephant whose twentieth lustrum was about being accomplished in the palace of the stables of Pekin, could not fail to be soon very much in the fashion.

Kin–Fo had to endure the inconveniences of this singular celebrity, and they went so far as to sing songs about him to the tune of "The Five Periods of the Centenarian." If Kin–Fo was annoyed at the noise made over his name, William J. Bidulph, on the contrary, was rejoiced; but Wang was, none the less, not to be found.

Things went so far that Kin–Fo was unable to endure the situation. Did he go out— a train of children of every age and sex followed him in the streets, and along the wharves, and even as far as the suburbs. Did he go home— a rabble of the worst kind stood before the doors of the yamen. Every morning he had to satisfy his people that he had not slept in his coffin in the "Pavilion of Long Life." The papers published an ironical bulletin of his health with comments, as if he belonged to the reigning dynasty of the "Tsing," which made him appear ridiculous.

It followed that one day, on the 21st of May, the annoyed Kin–Fo went to find the Honorable William J. Bidulph, to notify him that he intended to leave the place. He had, had enough of Shang–Hai, and the people of Shang–Hai. The agent thereupon remarked to him, very justly, "You may, be running greater risks."

"I care little for that," said Kin–Fo.

"But where are you going?"

"Straight before me."

"But where will you stop?"

"Nowhere."

"When will you come back?"

"Never."

"And if I should get some news of Wang?"

"Let Wang go to the devil! Oh, the foolish idea I had of giving him that absurd letter!"

Kin–Fo still had a great desire to find the philosopher. That his life was in the hands of another annoyed him, but to have to wait another month in such a situation he was not resigned to. The lamb was becoming enraged.

"Well, go then," said William J. Bidulph. "Craig and Fry will follow you, wherever you go."

"As you like," said Kin–Fo; "But I give you notice that they will have to run about."

Kin–Fo returned home and prepared to depart. Soun was to accompany him, although he did not like moving about.

Fry and Craig, like true Americans, were always ready to go, even to the end of the world, and they asked but one question: "Where, sir—" said Craig.

"Are you going?" added Fry.

"To Nan–King first, and then to the devil."

The same smile appeared simultaneously on Craig and Fry's lips; they were delighted. "To the devil!" nothing could please them better. They took leave of the Honorable William J. Bidulph, and dressed themselves in Chinese costume, in order to attract less attention during the journey through the Celestial Empire. An hour afterward, with their bags at their side, and their revolvers fastened around their waist, they returned to the yamen.

At nightfall Kin–Fo and his companions took passage on the steamboat which runs between Shang–Hai and Nan–King. In less than twelve hours they ascended by the Blue River as far as the old capital of Southern China. During the short passage, Craig and Fry took precious care of Kin–Fo, staring at all the passengers to see if they could recognize anybody, and particularly if they could see the philosopher, whom they knew very well. They felt assured that he was not on board. After taking this precaution, they paid particular attention to Kin–Fo; they felt every support on which he might lean; they drew him away from the boiler; they cautioned him not to expose himself to the night air; they scolded Soun for his neglect, as he was never near his master when he wanted him. They also slept at his cabin door, ready to assist him if, by an explosion or collision, the steamboat should sink.

But no accident occurred to prove Fry and Craig's devotion. The steamboat rapidly descended the Wousung, touched at Yang–Tse–Kiang, coasted along the island of Tsong–Ming, ascended through the province of Kiang–Sou, and on the 22nd, in the morning, landed her passengers safe and sound on the quay of the old imperial city. Soun was indebted to the two body–guards that his pigtail had not grown shorter during the voyage.

It was not without a motive that Kin–Fo stopped first at Nan–King. He had an idea that he might find the philosopher there. Wang might be attracted by past recollections to this unfortunate city, which was the principal center of the rebellion of the Tachings. It was possible that the philosopher, feeling homesick, had taken refuge in those places so full of personal recollections, and from there, in a few hours, he could return to Shang–Hai, ready to deal the blow.

Such was Kin–Fo's reason for stopping at Nan–King; should he meet Wang, all would be explained, and the absurd situation would be finished. If Wang was not there, he could continue his travels through the Celestial Empire until the time expired when he would have nothing to fear from his old teacher and friend.

"I am traveling under the assumed name of Ki–Nan," said Kin–Fo to his companions, "and I do not wish my real name to be known, under any pretext whatever."

"Ki—" said Craig.

"Nan," finished Fry.

"Ki–Nan," repeated Soun.

One can understand that Kin–Fo escaping the annoyances of his fame at Shang–Hai, did not wish to meet them again on his journey.

The whole day was passed in visiting the different places and streets in Nan–King. Kin–Fo walked quickly, talked little, and looked at everything. No suspicious person appeared among the mass of people which they met on the canals or in the streets. They saw no one they knew around the yamen of the Catholic missionaries, nor in the neighborhood of the arsenal. Kin–Fo, followed by his two companions, left by the eastern gate, and ventured out into the deserted country. They saw a small temple, and behind it was a hill. Under its turf Rong–Ou, the bonze who had become an emperor, and five centuries before had fought against the foreign power.

Might not the philosopher have come here again to look at the tomb where rested the founder of the dynasty of Ming? But the temple was abandoned. The only guardians were the colossal figures on the marble.

On the door of the temple Kin–Fo saw, not without emotion, signs which some hand had engraved there. He approached, and read these three letters;

W., K. F.

Wang! Kin–Fo! There could be no doubt that the philosopher had recently passed there.

Chapter 11

Travel Under Difficulties

Who is this traveler who is seen running over the principal road and up the canals and rivers of the Celestial Empire? He is going on and on all the time, not knowing in the evening where he will be to–morrow. He crosses over cities without seeing them, he goes to hotels only to sleep a few hours, and he stops at restaurants only to take a hasty meal. He is prodigal with his money; he throws it about to hasten his progress.

It is not a merchant engaged in business; it is not a mandarin to whom the minister has given an important and pressing mission; it is not an artist in search of the beauties of nature; it is not a savant who is in search of ancient documents stored in the temples of old China; it is not a student going to the pagoda to get his university degrees; nor is it a priest of Buddha inspecting the altars; nor a pilgrim fulfilling a vow at one of the five holy mountains of the Celestial Empire. It is the pretended Ki–Nan, accompanied by Fry and Craig, followed by Soun. It is Kin–Fo, in that singular state of mind which leads him to search for the undiscoverable Wang.

The travelers had taken at Nan–King one of those rapid American steamboats, those floating hotels which sail on the Blue River. Sixty hours later, and they land at Ran–Keou. There, situated at the confluence of the Blue River and its important tributary, the Ran–Kiang, the wandering Kin–Fo stopped half a day.

If Craig and Fry had ever hoped that on this journey through China they could get any idea of its customs, or learn anything of its cities, they were soon undeceived. They had not even time to take notes, and their impressions were reduced to the names of cities and suburbs, and to the days of the month; but they were neither curious nor talkative, they hardly ever spoke; for what good would it do? What Craig thought, Fry thought also.

Kin–Fo was not the man to give up this style of traveling, which pleased him. He expected to go to the point where the Ran–Kiang would cease to be navigable, after that he would consider. Craig and Fry would have liked that kind of navigation the whole course of the journey, for it was easier to watch on board of a boat, and there was less danger.

As for Soun, this life on board of a steamboat was agreeable to him. He did not have to walk; he had nothing to do; and he left his master to the good offices of Craig and Fry. He slept in the corner after breakfast, dinner, and supper, and the cooking was good.

Whoever had followed Kin–Fo from province to province, from city to city, in this fantastic journey, would have had much to do. At one time he would travel in a carriage, but such a carriage— it was nothing more than a box, fastened by large iron nails to the axletree of two wheels, drawn by two mules, and a linen covering which allowed the rays of the sun and the rain to penetrate. At another time he might be seen extended in a mule–chair, like a sentry–box hung between two poles, and which pitched and tossed about like a ship at sea. Craig and Fry followed on two asses which rolled and pitched more than the chair, trotted along like two aids–de–camp.

As to Soun, on such occasions, when walking was necessarily rapid, he went on foot grumbling and complaining, and comforting himself, when the opportunity offered, with brandy. He also felt a peculiar rolling motion, but it was due to other causes than the roughness of the road over which he had to go.

It was on horseback, and poor horses they were, that Kin–Fo and his companions made their entry into Si–Gnan–Fou, the ancient capital of the Central Empire, the former residence of the emperors of the dynasty of Tang. But to reach this far–off province of Chen–Si, and to cross the plains, how much fatigue and danger they had to undergo.

As to the dangers, they were but too real in a country where the police have an extraordinary dread of being stabbed by robbers. Several times suspicious looking men stopped the travelers while they were crossing narrow places, but on seeing Craig and Fry with their revolvers in their belts, they were frightened away. Nevertheless, the agents of the Centenary sometimes experienced great fear for the living million of dollars they were escorting, if not for themselves. That Kin–Fo should fall by Wang's poniard, or by a robber's dagger, would make no difference; the result would be the same, and the Company's money–chest would receive the blow.

Under those circumstances, Kin–Fo, who was armed, could defend himself. His life he valued more than ever now, and, as Craig and Fry remarked, "he would kill himself to preserve it."

At Tong–Kouan Kin–Fo intended to rest some days. He was looking for a convenient hotel where he could find a good bed, and a good table, which would have been agreeable to Fry and Craig, and more so to Soun. But the latter had the imprudence to give the Custom–house authorities the real name of his master, which cost him a partial loss of his pigtail. This mistake made Kin–Fo leave the city at once in great anger. The name had produced its effect. People wished to see the celebrated Kin–Fo, this unique man, whose only desire was to become a centenarian.

The disgusted traveler, with his two guards and his valet, had only time to escape from the crowds of curious people who followed his footsteps. He ascended the shores of the Yellow River on foot, and he and his companions traveled until they were exhausted, when they stopped at a little town, where, his being unknown, secured him some hours of peace and quiet.

Soun was so absolutely discomfited, that he dared not say a word, and, with the ridiculous little rat–tail that yet remained to him, he was a comic sight. The boys ran after him, making fun of him and calling him names, and he, too, was in a hurry to arrive at some place where his master was unknown.

The little town had no horses, wagons, or chairs. There was no alternative but to remain there or go on. This did not inspire the philosopher Wang's pupil with good humor, and he showed very little philosophy under the circumstances. He accused everybody, and had only himself to blame. How he regretted the time when he had nothing to do but live. "If to know happiness it is necessary to experience pain and torments," as Wang said, "I know it now."

While thus going about, he met worthy fellows without a penny in their pockets, who nevertheless were happy. He could not but see the varied forms of happiness which work, cheerfully performed, gives. Here were laborers bent over their plows, and there workmen who sang while handling their tools. Was it not to the want of this labor that Kin–Fo's lack of happiness might be attributed? Ah! The lesson was complete; he believed so, at least.

Craig and Fry finished by discovering a vehicle, the only one, after searching through the village, but they were unable to use it. It was a wheelbarrow— Pascal's wheelbarrow, and no doubt invented before the time of the invention of powder, the art of writing, the compass, and the kite.

In China, the wheel of this conveyance, which is large in diameter, is placed, not at the extreme end of the shafts, but in the center, and moves across the body of the wheelbarrow like the central wheel of some steamboats. The body is divided into two parts, in one of which the traveler can stretch himself out, and in the other his baggage is carried.

The motor of this vehicle can be only one man, who pushes it before him, and does not drag it after him. He is therefore placed behind the traveler, and does not obstruct his view, as the English cab–driver does. When the wind is favorable, the man adds to the natural force by setting a mast in front of the vehicle and raising a sail; so that when the breeze is strong, instead of pushing the wheelbarrow, it is the wheelbarrow which draws the man along— and sometimes faster than he wishes to go.

This vehicle was brought, with all its accessories, and Kin–Fo entered it. The wind was favorable, and the sail was hoisted. "Let us go, Soun," said Kin–Fo.

Soun was preparing to stretch himself out in the baggage compartment of the wheelbarrow. "Into the shafts!" cried Kin–Fo, in a tone which admitted of no reply.

"But, master—" said Soun, whose legs shook like a foundered horse.

"To the shafts!" repeated Kin–Fo, looking suspiciously at Soun's pigtail. "To the shafts! And look out that you do not shake me."

Soun passed the straps around his shoulders, and took hold of the shafts with both hands. Fry and Craig took their position, one on each side of the wheelbarrow, and the breeze assisting them, the little band went off at a brisk trot. We cannot attempt to describe Soun's powerless rage.

It was in this equipage that Kin–Fo entered into the northern provinces of China; walking when he wanted to stretch his legs, and driven in a wheelbarrow when he wished to rest himself.

On the 19th of June he reached Tong–Tcheou. Wang had yet six days to complete his contract.

Chapter 12

Lament of the Five Periods

"Gentlemen," said Kin–Fo to his two body–guards, when the wheelbarrow stopped at the entrance to the suburbs of Tong–Tcheou, "we have only forty miles to reach Pekin, and I intend to stay here until the time of the agreement will have expired between Wang and myself. In this city of four hundred thousand souls I can easily remain without being known, if Soun will only remember that he is in the service of Ki–Nan, a merchant of the province of Chen–Si."

Certainly, Soun would remember it; his blunder had cost him too much–was he not filling the place of a horse for eight days; "and he hoped that Kin–Fo―"

"Ki—" said Craig.

"Nan!" added Fry.

"Would not take him from his ordinary duties; and now, in the present tired state which he was in, he had but one favor to ask of Kin–Fo―"

"Ki—" again said Craig.

"Nan!" repeated Fry.

"That was, to be allowed to sleep for forty–eight hours, without any bridle or harness at all."

"For eight days, if you like," answered Kin–Fo, "for you cannot talk while you are asleep."

Kin–Fo and his companions occupied themselves in looking for a suitable hotel in Tong–Tcheou. That large city is only an immense suburb of Pekin. The road which joins it to the capital is bordered with villas, houses, tombs, and small pagodas. Kin–Fo was conducted to Tae–Ouang–Miao, the temple of the sovereign princes. It is a temple, transformed into a hotel where strangers can be comfortably lodged.

An hour afterward Kin–Fo and his two body–guards left their rooms, after taking breakfast with a good appetite, and they asked themselves what was to be done now? "It is necessary," echoed Craig and Fry, "to read the Official Gazette, so that we may see if there is anything there concerning ourselves."

"You are right," answered Kin–Fo. "Perhaps we may learn something about Wang, too."

All three left the hotel. The two acolytes walked on each side of Kin–Fo, looking at the passers–by, and allowing no one to approach him. They went by the side streets, in this way, until they reached the wharves, where they bought a copy of the Official Gazette, and read it eagerly. There was nothing in it but the promise of the two thousand dollars, or the thirteen hundred taels, to any one who would make known to William J. Bidulph the present residence of Mr. Wang, of Shang–Hai.

"So he has not turned up?" said Kin–Fo.

"He has not, therefore, read the advertisement about himself," remarked Craig.

"He therefore intends to fulfill the contract," added Fry.

"Without any doubt," answered Kin–Fo. "If Wang dogs not know the change in the situation of my affairs, and that seems probable, he will feel the necessity of keeping his promise. Therefore, in one, two, or three days, I will be in greater danger than I am to–day; and in six days I will be in greater danger than ever."

"But the time will pass."

"Then I shall have no more to fear."

"Well, sir," answered Craig and Fry, "there are but three ways of getting rid of this danger for the next six days."

"What is the first?" asked Kin–Fo.

"It is to shut yourself up in the room of your hotel," said Craig, "and to wait until the time has expired."

"And what is the second?"

"It is to have yourself arrested as a criminal," answered Fry, "and placed in the prison of Tong–Tcheou."

"And what is the third?"

"It is to pass yourself off for a dead man," answered Fry and Craig, "and not to rise again until you are sure there is no danger."

"You don't know Wang," cried Kin–Fo. "Wang would find means to get into this hotel, into my prison, and even into my tomb. If he has not already dealt the blow, it is because he has not wished to do so, and he prefers to let me have the pleasure of enjoying the anxiety of waiting. Who knows what his motive is? Anyway, I prefer to have my liberty."

"Wait then!" said Craig.

"It appears to me―" added Fry.

"Gentlemen!" answered Kin–Fo, in a dry tone, "I will do as I please. After all, if I die before the 25th of this month, what is your company going to lose?"

"Two hundred thousand dollars," answered Fry and Craig. "Two hundred thousand dollars which they will have to pay to your heirs."

"And I lose all my fortune, without saying anything about my life. I am therefore more interested than you are in this matter."

"Certainly."

"Very true."

"Well, you may continue to watch over me as much as you please, but I will do as I am inclined."

There was nothing to reply to this. Craig and Fry were obliged to increase their precautions, and allow their client to act as he pleased.

Tong–Tcheou is one of the oldest cities in the Celestial Empire; it is the center of business activity; its suburbs are very lively from the ingress and egress of its inhabitants. Kin–Fo and his two companions were struck with this active movement when they arrived on the wharf, where the junks and other boats are anchored.

Craig and Fry, on thinking over the situation of affairs, arrived at the conclusion that there was more safety in the midst of a crowd. The death of their client could be only brought about by suicide; the letter which would be found upon his person would leave no doubt in that respect.

Wang would have no interest in striking him down, except on certain conditions, which did not offer themselves in the crowded streets or in the public places in a city. Consequently, Kin–Fo's guardians had no fear of an immediate attack. There only remained now, to find out whether the Tai–ping, by some means, had not been following them since their departure from Shang–Hai, and they used their eyes in staring at the people as they passed them by.

All of a sudden a name was heard spoken at which they pricked up their ears.

"Kin–Fo, Kin–Fo!" cried some little Chinese children, clapping their hands and jumping about in the midst of a crowd.

Was Kin–Fo known there, and had his name produced the accustomed effect? Our hero stopped. Craig and Fry held themselves in readiness, in case of an attack.

It was not for Kin–Fo that these cries were intended. No one appeared to know him. He did not stir, but curious to know why his name was called, he waited. A crowd of men, women, and children were gathered around a strolling singer, who appeared to be very popular with the people in the streets. The crowd clapped their hands and applauded him in advance.

When the singer had a sufficiently large audience he drew out a package of illustrated cards, beautifully colored, and then he cried, in a loud voice:

"The Five Periods Of The Centenarian."

It was the famous lament which was going the rounds of the Celestial Empire.

Craig and Fry wished to draw away their client, but this time Kin–Fo insisted on remaining. No one knew him. He had never heard the lament which related his ways and doings; he wanted to hear it. The singer commenced thus:

"In the first period, when the moon shines on the roof of the house at Shang–Hai, Kin–Fo is young; he is only twenty years old; he looks like the willow whose first leaves show their little green tongue."

"In the second period, when the moon shines on the east side of the rich yamen, Kin–Fo is forty years old, and his business has succeeded to his liking, and his neighbors sing his praises."

The singer changed the expression of his face, and seemed to age at every verse. He was loaded with applause. He continued:

"In the third period the moon lights the open space. Kin–Fo is sixty years old. After the green leaves of summer, the yellow chrysanthemums of autumn come."

"In the fourth period the moon has declined to the west. Kin–Fo is eighty years old. His body is twisted like a prawn in hot water. He is failing; he is sinking with the star of night."

"In the fifth period the cocks salute the birth of dawn. Kin–Fo is a hundred years old. He dies; his greatest desire is accomplished, but Prince Ien refuses to receive him. The prince does not want aged people who go into second childhood in his court. Old Kin–Fo must wander through all eternity, without being able to rest."

The crowd applauded, and the singer sold hundreds of his laments at three sapeques a copy.

And why should not Kin–Fo buy one? He drew some money from his pocket, and extending his arm, the money fell on the ground in the midst of the crowd. There was a man standing opposite who fixed his gaze on him.

"Ah!" said Kin–Fo. At the same time Fry and Craig came up to him, thinking that he was recognized, threatened, or perhaps struck.

"Wang!" cried Kin–Fo.

"Wang!" repeated Craig and Fry.

It was indeed Wang. He saw his old pupil; but instead of embracing him, repulsed him vigorously, and ran away as fast as he could.

Kin–Fo did not hesitate, but pursued Wang, escorted by Fry and Craig. They also recognized the philosopher, who evidently no more expected to see Kin–Fo than Kin–Fo expected to find him there. Why did Wang fly away? It was a mystery, but he did run as if all the police in the Celestial Empire were running after him. It was a mad pursuit.

"I am not ruined, Wang! Wang, I am not ruined!" cried Kin–Fo.

"Rich!" cried Fry.

"Rich!" repeated Craig.

But Wang was too far ahead to hear these words, which were meant to stop him. He ran along the wharf and the canal, and reached the suburbs. The three pursuers ran after him, but did not gain. Half a dozen Chinamen joined in the race, as well as two or three tipaos, who mistook him for a criminal. It was a curious sight, this crowd shouting and screaming, adding to their number as they went along.

The name Wang was sufficient. Wang was that enigmatical personage whose discovery would be worth a large reward. Everybody knew it; and while Kin–Fo ran after his eight hundred thousand dollars, Craig and Fry ran after their two hundred thousand, and the others ran after the two thousand, which was the amount of the reward offered for the discovery of Wang.

"Wang! Wang! I am richer than ever!" repeatedly cried Kin–Fo, as much as his speed would allow him.

"Not ruined?" cried Fry.

"Not ruined," repeated Craig.

"Stop, stop!" cried the pursuers, who made the dust fly. Wang heard nothing. He was unwilling to allow the crowd to gain on him by turning his head.

The suburbs were passed, and Wang made for the road along the canal, where he had a free field. His speed increased, but his pursuers increased their efforts, and this mad chase was kept up for twenty minutes. No one knew what the result would be; but it was evident that the fugitive was weakening. The distance between his pursuers and himself was being shortened.

Wang, seeing this, ran behind some trees in front of a small pagoda on the right of the road.

"Ten thousand taels to whoever stops him!" cried Kin–Fo.

"Ten thousand—" cried Craig.

"Taels," concluded Fry.

"Yes, yes," cried the crowd; and they crossed the road, and were winding around the pagoda. Wang appeared again, and taking a direct course along a canal to avoid his pursuers, found himself on a paved road. He was now exhausted, and often turned his head around.

The end was approaching, it was only a question of a short time— perhaps a few minutes at most.

Wang, Kin–Fo, and his companions had arrived at a place where the road crossed a river, over the celebrated bridge of Palikao. It was now no use attempting to stop Wang by words which he could not or would not hear. It was necessary to catch him, and, if necessary, to tie him. An explanation would follow.

Wang saw that he would be taken, and he seemed to wish to avoid meeting his old pupil face to face, and he would have risked his life rather than to see him. With one bound Wang jumped upon the railing of the bridge and threw himself into the Pei–ho.

Kin–Fo stopped and cried out, "Wang, Wang!"

Then, taking a leap, he also sprang into the river, shouting, "I will take him alive!"

"Craig," said Fry.

"Fry," said Craig.

"Two hundred thousand dollars in the water." They both jumped on the railing and plunged into the water to aid the ruinous client of the Centenary. Some few of the pursuers followed in their excitement.

Kin–Fo, Fry, and Craig searched for Wang, but he could not be found. He must have been drawn down by the river, and drowned. Had he deliberately sought death or only been striving to escape? No one could tell.

****** Chapter 13 Pekin

The Pe–Tche–Li, the most western of the eighteen provinces of China, is divided into nine departments. The capital of one of these is Chun–Kin–Fo; that is, "the City of the First Order, Submissive to Heaven," which city is Pekin. It comprises two distinct cities, which are divided by a large boulevard and a fortified wall. One of them, the Chinese City, is a rectangular parallelogram; and the other, the Tartar City, is almost a perfect square; the latter incloses two other cities named the "Yellow City" (Hoang–Tching), and the "Red City" (Tsen–Kin–Tching).

The Chinese city is divided, north and south, by an important artery called Grand Avenue. Transversely it is crossed by another artery, much longer, which cuts the first at a right angle, and runs from the Cha–Coua Gate at the east to the Couan–Tsu Gate at the west. It is called Cha–Coua Avenue, and it was about a hundred paces from its point of intersection with Grand Avenue that the future Madame Kin–Fo lived.

The reader may remember that, a few days after she received the letter announcing Kin–Fo's ruin, she received a second contradicting the first, and saying that the seventh moon would not pass over before her little younger brother would be near her.

It is useless to ask whether Le–ou counted the days and hours after that date, the 17th of May; but Kin–Fo gave her no further news of himself during that wild journey, the object of which he would not make known to anybody under any pretext. Le–ou had written to Shang–Hai. Her letters remained unanswered. We can well conceive her anxiety when on the 19th of June no letter had been received by her.

Le–ou was a Buddhist. The bonzes often observed her coming to the temple of Koan–Ti–Miao, consecrated to the Goddess Koanine. There she made prayers for her friend, and burned perfumed sticks, and prostrated herself in the porch of the temple.

That day she thought she would implore the Goddess Koanine, for she had a presentiment that some great danger threatened him whom she expected with impatience. Le–ou therefore called the "old mother," and told her to go and order a chair and carriers in the square in Grand Avenue. Nan shrugged her shoulders, and went to execute her message.

During this time the young widow was alone in her dressing–room, looking sadly at the phonograph, which no longer enabled her to hear the voice of her absent one. "Ah!" said she, "he must at least know that I do not cease to think of him, and I wish that my voice may repeat this to him when he returns." Le–ou pushed the spring which puts the phonographic wheel in motion, and with a loud voice spoke the sweet phrases her heart inspired.

Nan entered suddenly, and interrupted this tender monologue. The chair–bearers were waiting for madame, "who might as well have stayed at home."

Le–ou did not hear, but went out, leaving the old woman to scold as she liked. She installed herself in the chair, after giving orders to carry her to Koan–Ti–Miao.

The carriers had only to turn around Cha–Coua Avenue and ascend Grand Avenue as far as the Gate of Tien. But they did not advance without difficulties. Business was brisk at this hour, and there was considerable delay in that quarter of the city, which is one of the most populous in the capital. Here might be seen peddler's booths, open–air orators, fortune–tellers, photographers; and there a wedding procession, or perhaps a funeral— all helping to block up the way. In another place there might be seen a crowd before the yamen of a magistrate. On the Leou–Ping rock there was a criminal kneeling, who had received a beating. There was also a thief shut up in a wooden box, with his head looking backward, who was left to public charity. Others were seen wearing yokes like oxen.

Le–ou's chair went very slow, and the impediments became greater as she approached the outer boulevard. She arrived there, however, and stopped at the interior of the bastion, which defends the door near the Temple of the Goddess Koanine.

Le–ou descended from her chair, entered the temple, and, after kneeling, she prostrated herself before the statue of the goddess. She then directed her steps to a religious machine, which is called the "prayer mill." It is a sort of reel, with eight branches, on the ends of which were little streamers ornamented with sacred texts. A bonze stood gravely near the machine and awaited the worshiper, and especially the price for the devotions. Le–ou gave the servant of Buddha a few taels, which were to pay the expenses of religion, and then with her right hand she seized the handle of the reel and commenced to turn it slowly, after placing her left hand on her heart.

"Faster," said the bonze, with an encouraging gesture, and the young woman began to turn faster. This lasted for a quarter of an hour, after which the bonze assured her that her prayers would be granted. Le–ou again bowed down before the Goddess Koanine, left the temple, entered the chair, and was taken home.

As she reached Grand Avenue the carriers went faster; the stores were being closed, and business was being suspended; a long cortege filled a part of the avenue, and was noisily approaching.

It was the Emperor Koang–Sin, whose name means "Continuation of Glory," who was returning to his good Tartar City, whose middle gate was about to open to him. At the head were two body–guards, followed by a platoon of soldiers; next came a group of officers of high rank, who held a yellow parasol with ruffles, and ornamented with a dragon, which is the emblem of the emperor, as the phoenix is that of the empress.

The palanquin next appeared, and was carried by sixteen men with red dresses covered with white rosettes, and closely fitting embroidered silk waistcoats. Princes, dignitaries on horses harnessed in yellow silk, as a sign of very high rank, escorted the imperial carriage. In the palanquin reclined the Son of Heaven, cousin of the Emperor Tong–Tche, and nephew of Prince Kong.

After the palanquin came relays of carriers and grooms. This cortege entered the gates of Tien, to the satisfaction of promenaders, merchants and others, who could now attend to their business.

Le–ou's chair continued on its way to her house, where she arrived after being absent about two hours. But what a surprise the Goddess Koanine had in store for the young woman!

When the chair stopped, a carriage drawn by two mules, and covered with dust, drove up to the door, and Kin–Fo, followed by Craig, Fry, and Soun, descended from it.

"Is it you? Is it you?" cried Le–ou, who could not believe what she saw.

"Dear little younger sister!" answered Kin–Fo, "You certainly did not doubt that I would return?"

Le–ou could not answer. She took her friend's hand, and drawing him into her dressing–room before the little phonograph, the discreet confidant of her troubles, she said, "I have not for a moment doubted your return;" and adjusting the wheel of the phonograph, she pressed the spring which set it in motion.

Kin–Fo then heard a sweet voice repeat what the loving Le–ou had been saying to him a few hours before his arrival.

"Come back, well–beloved little brother— come back to me! That our hearts may be no longer separated, as are the two stars of Orpheus and Lyra. I think only of your return."

The phonograph was silent for a few moments, when it cried out, in a harsh voice: "Is it not sufficient to have a mistress, without having a master in the house? May Prince Ien strangle them both!"

This second voice was easy to recognize— it was Nan's. The disagreeable old woman continued to speak after Le–ou left the room, while the machine was in a condition to receive impressions; but she did not know that her imprudent words were registered. Maid–servants and valets, beware of phonographs!

That very day Nan was dismissed, without even waiting for the last days of the seventh moon.

Chapter 14

Surprises

Every obstacle to Kin–Fo's marriage with Le–ou was now removed. It was true that the time allowed for Wang to fulfill his pledge had not yet expired; but the unfortunate philosopher had fallen a victim as the result of his mysterious flight, and further danger was not to be feared from him. The 25th of June, the very day on which at one time Kin–Fo had wished to end his existence, was fixed for the wedding.

Le–ou had of course been informed of the various vicissitudes which her lover had experienced since he had sent her his refusal either to make her the participator of his poverty or to run the risk of leaving her a widow, and she was well aware of the altered circumstances that had led him once more to come and claim her as his bride. She could not restrain her tears when she heard of Wang's death. She had known the philosopher and esteemed him, and he had moreover been her first confidant of her sentiments toward Kin–Fo. "Poor Wang," she said, "we shall miss him at our wedding."

"Yes, poor Wang," repeated Kin–Fo; "but you must remember," he added, "that he had sworn to kill me."

Le–ou shook her pretty little head. "No, no," she said, "he would never have done that. I believe he drowned himself in the Pei–Ho, for the very purpose of evading his promise."

Kin–Fo could not but own that her hypothesis was probable. He, too, regretted the faithful companion of his youth; his memory would be long in fading from either of their hearts.

It is almost needless to say that after the catastrophe on the bridge of Palikao, Bidulph's sensational paragraphs in the newspapers were discontinued, and the name of Kin–Fo sank into oblivion almost as speedily as it had risen into notoriety. The services of Craig and Fry were no longer in such urgent requisition. It is true that they were bound to defend the interests of the Centenarian until the 30th, the date of the expiration of the policy, but there was now no demand for the same measure of unremitted vigilance. Fear of attack from Wang had passed away, and there was no probability that Kin–Fo would lay violent hands on himself; his desire now was to live as long as possible.

But Kin–Fo did not care to give them an abrupt dismissal. If their services had not been disinterested, they had at least been conscientious, and he therefore begged them to stay over his marriage festivities, an invitation which they were very pleased to accept.

"Marriage is a kind of suicide," was Fry's jesting remark to Craig.

"It is a surrender of one's life, at all events," was Craig's reply.

Old Nan was soon replaced in Le–ou's household by a domestic of more agreeable disposition. Loo–ta–loo, an aunt of Le–ou's, of mature age, had come to stay with her, and act a mother's part at the time of her marriage. She was the wife of a second–class mandarin of the fourth rank, with the blue button, formerly an Imperial reader, and member of the Academy of the Hanlin, apparently possessing every quality for performing her office in a manner worthy of the occasion.

It was Kin–Fo's intention to leave Pekin immediately after his marriage, as besides his objection to residing in the vicinity of the Imperial Court, he felt anxious to see his young wife properly installed as mistress of the sumptuous yamen at Shang–Hai. Meantime he took temporary apartments in the Tien–Foo–Tang, or temple of celestial happiness, a very comfortable hotel and restaurant near the Tien–Men rampart, between the Chinese and Tartar towns. Craig and Fry were lodged in the same quarters. Soun had returned to his duties, but although he was always grumbling, he took care first of all to assure himself that there was no phonograph at hand. The fate of old mother Nan was a warning to him to be cautious.

Kin–Fo had the pleasure of meeting two of his Canton friends in Pekin— the merchant Yin–Pang, and Hooal, the literate. They of course were invited to attend the approaching ceremony, as well as several of the dignitaries and merchants with whom Kin–Fo was acquainted in the capital.

Wang's apathetic, indifferent pupil seemed at last to have become truly happy; two months' trouble and botheration seemed at last to have made him appreciate his fortunate lot; the philosopher had been right, and it was a matter for regret that he was not present to witness the truth of the theory that he had advanced.

All the time that was at his disposal was spent by Kin–Fo with the young widow. She was never so happy as when he was by her side. She cared little for the presents which he lavished upon her from the richest stores in the city. Her thoughts were of him and him alone, and over and over again she would repeat to herself the wise maxims of the famous Pan–Hoei–Pan:

"If a woman has a husband after her own heart, she has him for all her life."

"A woman should have an unbounded respect for the man whose name she bears."

"A woman should be like a shadow and an echo in the house."

"The husband is the wife's heaven."

Meantime the preparations for the wedding, which Kin–Fo wished to be very handsome, were advancing rapidly. Already the thirty pairs of embroidered slippers that are necessary for a Chinese lady's trousseau had arrived at Le–ou's house, and her boudoir was crammed with confectionery and dried fruits, all in confusion with rich silks, jewels of wrought gold and precious stones, cases for the nails, bodkins for the hair, and all the charming knickknacks that Pekin jewelers so cunningly devise.

In this strange country, a young girl when she marries never has a dowry. She is literally purchased either by the husband himself, or by his relations. Although she may have no brothers, she cannot inherit any portion of her paternal fortune, unless her father makes an express declaration in her favor. Such arrangements are always completed before the marriage, and are usually negotiated by agents called "Mei–jin."

The young fiancee is next presented to her husband's parents. The husband himself she never sees until the wedding–day, when she is carried in a closed chair to his house. The key of the chair is handed to the bridegroom, who opens the door, and if the lady within pleases his taste, he holds out his hand to her; if not, he slams the door, and the engagement is all at an end, the girl's parents having the right to retain the purchase–money.

No preliminaries of this kind were necessary in Kin–Fo's case; he and his future wife were both free agents, and had no one to consult besides themselves. There were, however, other formalities which might not be neglected. For three days before the wedding the inside of Le–ou's house was kept brilliantly lighted throughout, and for three whole nights Loo–ta–loo, as the representative of the bride's family, had to abstain from sleep, to indicate the grief felt at parting from the fiancee. Had Kin–Fo's parents been living, his house would have been illuminated too, as a sign of mourning, for according to the Hao–Khieou–Chooen, "the marriage of a son ought to be regarded as an emblem of the death of the father."

There were moreover various astrological calculations not to be overlooked. The horoscopes were taken with due form, and foretold a perfect compatibility of temper between the affianced couple. The season of the year and the age of the moon were alike favorable, and it seemed as though no marriage could possibly take place under more propitious auspices.

The appointed day arrived, and everything was ready for the great event. In China there is no formal contract made in the presence of a bonze or lama, nor even before a civil magistrate, and it was arranged that the bride should be conducted with great pomp to the hotel of Celestial Happiness at eight o'clock in the evening.

At seven o'clock Kin–Fo, attended by Craig and Fry, waited to receive his friends at the door of his apartment. The invitations dispensed to them had been inscribed in microscopic characters on red paper, and ran thus:

"Kin–Fo of Shang–Hai presents his humble respects to ―, and humbly begs him to assist at the humble ceremony of his marriage."

The guests thus invited all arrived. They had come to do honor to the bridegroom, and to take part in the magnificent banquet prepared for the men, while the ladies would feast apart at a table specially reserved for them. Yin–Pang and Hooal the literate duly arrived among the rest.

As soon as they arrived, Kin–Fo conducted them to the reception–room, stopping twice on the way at doors which were opened by servants in gorgeous livery, and begging his guests to pass before him. His mode of addressing them was in the politest strain. He called them by their "noble names," inquired after their "noble health," and asked for information about their "noble families." Not even the most scrupulous observer of etiquette could have found the slightest flaw in his manners or deportment.

Craig and Fry watched his demeanor with surprise and admiration. They watched him also for another reason. The same idea had occurred to them both: namely, that Wang might not have perished, as they imagined, in the river. Were there not yet several hours to expire? Perhaps, even now, he might mingle with the wedding–guests and strike the fatal blow. Improbable as this was, it was not impossible, and Craig and Fry carefully scrutinized every one who entered. But the face they sought did not appear.

The bride arrived. Kin–Fo stepped forward. The master of the ceremonies handed him a key, with which he unlocked the door of the palanquin. He held out his hand; Le–ou, trembling and beautiful, descended lightly, and passed through the assembled visitors, who saluted her respectfully by raising their hands to their breasts. As the bride entered the hotel a signal was given, and instantly a number of illuminated kites in the form of dragons, phoenixes, and other emblems of marriage, rose into the air; flying pigeons, with a little musical apparatus attached to their tails, filled the space overhead with harmonious sounds, while hundreds of sky–rockets shot up and descended in a golden shower.

Suddenly a distant noise was heard upon the ramparts. Mingled with the murmur of voices were heard the tones of a trumpet's blast. The noise ceased, then began again. This time the sounds were nearer; it was evident they were approaching the very street where the bridal cortege had arrived. Kin–Fo paused and listened; his friends stood waiting to receive the bride. Gradually the commotion reached the street; the trumpets were being blown more vigorously than ever.

"What can it be?" Kin–Fo exclaimed.

Le–ou turned pale; a presentiment of the cause of the uproar made her heart beat fast. All at once the mob rushed down the street. In the midst was a herald wearing the Imperial uniform, and escorted by a detachment of ti–paos. Silence fell upon the multitude, as he proclaimed in sonorous tones, "The Empress dowager is dead!"

"An interdiction! An interdiction!"

Kin–Fo uttered an exclamation of rage and disappointment. Only too well he knew what an interdiction meant. It meant that during the court–mourning, which commencing from that moment would last for a period to be fixed by law, no subject would be allowed to have his head shaved, no public festivities might be held, no theatrical representations might be given, no courts of justice might be open, and worst of all— no marriages might be celebrated!

Le–ou, though downcast, was not disconcerted. Taking Kin–Fo's hand, she pressed it gently, and in a voice that strove to conceal her emotion, she said bravely, "We must wait a little longer!"

And so the palanquin departed, bearing the fair young bride back to her home in the Cha–Coua Avenue. The festivities were suspended; the tables cleared; the orchestra dismissed, and the guests, after condolences with the disconsolate bridegroom, took their departure.

Kin–Fo, with only Craig and Fry, was left in the deserted apartment of the hotel of Celestial Happiness, a name of bitter sarcasm to him now. An evil fate seemed still to be pursuing him. He dared not run the risk of infringing the Imperial edict, and the interdiction might be prolonged at the Emperor's pleasure to an indefinite period. Here indeed was an occasion when he had need of all the precepts of philosophy instilled into him in his early days.

An hour later, a servant entered bearing a letter, which he said had just been delivered by a messenger. Kin–Fo exclaimed with surprise. He recognized the handwriting; it was Wang's own.

"My Dear Friend, I am yet alive, but by the time you receive this I shall be dead. I die because I have not courage to perform my contract; but be content, I have provided for your wishes to be carried out. Lao–Shen, a Tai–ping, and a former comrade of my own, has your letter. He has hands and heart that will not flinch. He will do the deed. To him I have bequeathed the sum of money which would fall to me at your death."

"Farewell, dear friend; my death will not long precede your own! Again farewell!"

"Yours ever, Wang."

Chapter 15

Off Again

Here was a dilemna! It left Kin–Fo in a more critical position than ever. Wang's courage, it was true, had failed him at the last, and nothing was to be apprehended from him. But had he not deputed his commission to an avowed Tai–ping who would murder him without the least scruple? And was not that Tai–ping in possession of a document that would protect him from punishment? Moreover, had he not 50,000 dollars to gain by the transaction?

Kin–Fo stamped his foot in vexation, and muttered, "Enough of this business! It must be settled somehow!"

Handing Wang's letter to Craig and Fry, he asked them whether they had anything to suggest.

They inquired whether the paper he had given to Wang specified the 25th as being the limit provided for the execution of the contract.

"No; I left Wang to fill up the document with the date at his discretion. This rascal Lao–Shen is free to act just when he pleases; he has no stipulation about time to bind him."

"But the policy," said Craig and Fry, "expires on the 30th. He is sure to know enough to make him understand that he has nothing to gain if he delays the act an hour beyond that. No; he will finish his business before that day, or he will leave it alone."

There was not much to be said in answer to this, but Kin–Fo paced up and down the room uneasily. "We must find this Lao–Shen; be he where he may, we must get at him. The letter I gave Wang must be redeemed; at all hazards, at any cost, it must be redeemed: even if I pay the 50,000 dollars for it, I must have it."

"Of course, if you can," assented Craig.

"If I can? I must, I will!" cried Kin–Fo, getting more and more excited; "Am I to suffer disappointment after disappointment?" And again he paced the room rapidly.

"I am off again!" he said, after a few minutes.

"At your service, sir," replied the men.

"I am off! You, gentlemen, do as you please; but I start at once."

"We attend you, of course," answered both Craig and Fry with one breath.

"As you like," Kin–Fo repeated.

"We should be failing entirely in our duty to our employers if we were to permit you to travel alone."

"Well, then," said Kin–Fo, "no time to lose."

It was not very likely that it would prove at all a difficult matter to discover Lao–Shen. He was a notorious character, and very few inquiries were enough to elicit the information that after the suppression of the rebellion in which he had taken an active part, he had retired beyond the Great Wall to the north, into the district around the gulf of Leao–Tong, an inlet of the gulf of Pe–Chi–Li. The government had not made terms with him in the same way as it had with many others of the insurgent leaders, but had winked at his retreating beyond the Imperial frontier, when he found himself at liberty to adopt the congenial profession of a highwayman. Altogether, he was a man whose qualifications for the office for which Wang had engaged him could not be disputed.

A little closer investigation soon brought it further to light that Lao–Shen had quite recently been seen in the neighborhood of Foo–Ning, a small port on the Gulf of Leao–Tong, and thither Kin–Fo made up his mind to hasten without delay. At least he would be on the track of the man he sought.

First of all, however, he must go to Le–ou and inform her of his decision. Her grief was pitiable. With tears streaming from her eyes, she besought him to keep far as possible out of the reach of a man hired to be his assassin. Let him leave China altogether. Madness to go near Lao–Shen; better go to the remotest corner of the earth.

As well as he could, Kin–Fo consoled her; he explained that there was no quarter of the world where he could endure to feel that his life was at the disposal of a mercenary rascal; it was his determination to follow the fellow up, and to find him out; he was going to put a stop to the bargain; he was going to get back that unlucky paper, and he should succeed; he would soon be back again in Pekin; he would be back before the day appointed for the Court mourning came to an end. And he finished by exclaiming, "How fortunate for us that our marriage has been delayed this little while! How dreadful for you, while my life hangs thus in the balance, to be my wife!"

"No, no, indeed," answered Le–ou sadly; "if only I had been your wife, I could have claimed the right of going with you in every hour of danger."

"Far better otherwise," said Kin–Fo; "I had rather face a thousand perils, and die a thousand deaths, than bring you into jeopardy."

Le–ou wept still more bitterly. A tear rose to the eye of Kin–Fo himself, and saying "farewell," he tore himself from her embrace.

The same morning saw the party back again at Tong–Tcheou. Soun repined very sorrowfully at being again disturbed in the rest he was ever seeking; he thought himself the unluckiest of mortals. But there was no help for it.

What now should be the line of action? This was the next question to be decided. There was the choice of going by land or by water. To go by land would take them through a country which under the circumstances was especially perilous, although had they been going no farther than the Great Wall, they would have been tempted to run the risk. But the port of Foo–Ning, whither they were on their way, was far to the east, and if only a vessel could be found to convey them, they would really save time by going by sea. The passage ought only to take a few days. Kin–Fo set about inquiring, and had the satisfaction of learning that a ship on its way to Foo–Ning was at that very time lying at the mouth of the Pei–Ho, and which, if he took one of the fast river–boats down the stream, there was no doubt he would be able to catch. He would be sure to find accommodation for his party on board.

Craig and Fry begged for an hour's grace; they obtained the permission, which was granted with some reluctance, and made use of the time in purchasing a great variety of apparatus for saving life in case of shipwreck; they bought old–fashioned life–belts, and unwilling to let their charge incur the slightest risk that precaution could anticipate, they bought the recently invented floating–costume of Captain Boyton.

Every preparation was hurried on, and it was still quite early in the afternoon of the 26th, when they all went on board the Pei–tang, one of the little river steamers that ply along the Pei–Ho. The river winds so much that the distance between Tong–Tcheou and the river–mouth is as nearly as possible double the length of a straight line drawn from point to point; its banks are artificial and the channel is consequently deep enough to accommodate vessels of considerable burden.

Craig and his colleague made a point throughout the passage of never stirring an inch from the place of duty. They felt a heavier responsibility now brought upon them by the change of circumstances. It was no longer from Wang, whom they knew well enough to recognize at a glance, that they had to defend their charge; it was from Lao–Shen, a desperate Tai–ping, a man they had never seen, who might be in disguise among the passengers, ready at any moment to perpetrate his murderous act. Could they be too vigilant? They scarcely allowed themselves time to eat; when should they be able to find time to sleep?

Soun was all in a flutter, but his disquietude arose from altogether a different cause; the prospect of a sea–voyage thoroughly upset him, and, although the water in the river was perfectly smooth, the nearer the steamboat approached the gulf, the more livid did his countenance become.

"Then you have never been on the sea?" asked Craig.

"Never," he replied.

"You don't seem to think you will like it," added Fry.

"I don't like it at all."

"You must keep your head up," said Craig.

"And your mouth shut," continued Fry.

The poor fellow looked as if he had not the least objection to keep his mouth shut, but he cast one of those lugubrious glances at the widening waters which often betray beforehand the dread of seasickness. He made no reply, but found a place as near the middle of the boat as he could.

Before sunrise the little steamer had reached Ta–koo. Here were the ruins of the northern and southern forts that were taken in 1860 by the allied army of England and France, when General Collineau on the 24th of August made his grand attack, the gunboats forcing the entrance of the river. A narrow strip, now scarcely occupied at all, was conceded to the French, and there may still be seen the monument erected over the bodies of the officers and men who fell upon that occasion.

Unable to cross the bar of the river, the Pei–tang had to land her passengers at Ta–koo. It was a town of considerable importance, and would be found capable of a large development, if only the mandarins would permit a railway to be laid down.

The ship bound for Foo–Ning was to sail that day, so that no time would be lost. The vessel was named the Sam–Yep; and Kin–Fo, finding nothing to detain him on shore, hailed a sampan, and went on board at once.

Chapter 16

On Board the Sam-yep

A week previously an American ship, chartered by one of the Chino–Californian companies, had cast anchor in the harbor of Ta–koo. She was freighted at the expense of the Ting–Tong agency that had its headquarters at the Laurel Hill Cemetery, San Francisco, where the bodies of the celestials who had died in the United States awaited their transit to their native land, where their religion ordains that they shall be interred. The vessel, which was bound for Canton, conveyed as many as two hundred and fifty coffins, seventy–five of which had been disembarked at Takoo, and transferred that morning to the vessel on which Kin–Fo and his party had taken passage, to be despatched to the northern provinces. The voyage, it is true, at that season of the year, would not last more than two or three days, and no other vessel was at present going in the direction of Leao–Tong; otherwise it was not exactly the one they would have been disposed to select.

The Sam–Yep was a sea–junk of about three hundred tons burden. Some junks of over one thousand tons draw only six feet of water, enabling them to cross the bars of rivers. Too wide for their length, their beam measuring a quarter of their keel, they sail badly unless close to the wind, but have the advantage of being able to put about, as it were on their own pivot, as easily as a top. Their enormous helms are pierced with holes, a system very much applauded in China, but the effect of which is open to controversy. Be that as it may, however, these ponderous junks no doubt do brave the sea around the mouths of rivers, and it has been recorded that one of them, chartered by a Canton firm and commanded by an American, conveyed a cargo of tea and porcelain to San Francisco, an instance which proves that it is not impossible for them to stand the open sea. It has also been asserted by competent judges that the Chinese make excellent seamen.

The Sam–Yep was of modern construction, her hull being somewhat after the European model. She was built entirely of bamboo sewn together and calked with tow and resin from Cambodga, and was so water–tight that it was considered unnecessary for her to carry a pump in her hold. She floated as light as a cork; her anchor was made of wood of a most durable character; her rigging was of palm–fiber, and remarkably flexible; and she had two masts, a mainmast and foremast, like a lugger. In every respect she seemed perfectly fitted for short cruises.

In looking at her, no one would have imagined that she had temporarily been converted into an enormous hearse, and that so melancholy a cargo had replaced the ordinary chests of tea, bales of silks, and packets of Chinese perfumery. She had laid aside none of her usual decorations; fore and aft waved pennants and streamers; on the prow was painted a great red eye, like that of some huge seamonster; from the masthead floated the Chinese flag; and two pieces of ordnance glittered brightly in the sunlight. The whole appearance of the vessel was fresh and festive. After all, was she not performing the pleasant duty of restoring to their native land the corpses of those who had expressed their wish to lie there? To Kin–Fo and Soun there was nothing repugnant in the idea of such a cargo. The two Americans doubtless would have preferred something different, but they had no alternative than to perform their office of following Kin–Fo.

A captain and a crew of six men were all that were required to work the junk. It has been said that the mariner's compass was invented in China; whether that is true or not, the Chinese cruisers never use it; and Captain Yin, the commander of the Sam–Yep, as he did not expect to go out of sight of land, was no exception to the general rule.

Captain Yin was a bright, loquacious little man, nearly always smiling, and a living illustration of the theory of perpetual motion. He was never still: eyes, arms, and hands seemed here, there, and everywhere, and moved as fast as his tongue. He rated and scolded his crew, but on the whole he was a capital seaman, had his vessel perfectly under his control, and was well acquainted with the coasts. The handsome sum that Kin–Fo had paid as passage–money had by no means a tendency to lower his spirits; a hundred and fifty taels for a trip of sixty hours was a windfall that did not often fall to his lot.

Kin–Fo and his guardians found quarters, such as they were, in the stern of the vessel. Soun was accommodated near the bow.

After a most careful scrutiny of both captain and crew, Craig and Fry came to the conclusion that there was nothing at all suspicious in the appearance of any of them. It was quite unlikely that they were in collusion with Lao–Shen, as it was the merest chance that had brought Kin–Fo upon the junk at all. Beyond the ordinary perils of a sea voyage, there was no special danger pending over their charge, and they felt justified in relaxing a little of their vigilance.

Kin–Fo felt the relief of being left more to himself. He retired to his cabin, and began to "philosophize," as he expressed it. Here was he, a man who when he was exempt from care amid the luxuries of his yamen, never knew what happiness was. Trouble and anxiety had wrought a transformation in his mind, and now, when once he should gain possession of the fatal letter, he thought he should know true happiness at last. That the letter would be restored to him he had no doubt whatever. It was only a question of money with Lao–Shen; he would as soon receive 50,000 dollars from Kin–Fo during his lifetime as after his death; perhaps sooner, as it would save him the trouble of going to Shang–Hai and presenting himself at the Centenarian Office, a proceeding which, however great might be the clemency of the Government, could not be without a certain amount of risk to a former rebel. The difficulty was lest the Tai–ping should attack him unawares. He knew nothing of Lao–Shen's movements, while Lao–Shen might be perfectly conversant with his, and the danger would become even more imminent when he landed in the very province where he resided. Nevertheless, Kin–Fo was hopeful, and went on to make brilliant plans for the future, in which of course the young widow at Pekin played no unimportant part.

Soun's meditations, meantime, were of a very different nature. Lying prostrate in his cabin, he was paying his tribute to the malevolent deities of the Gulf of Pe–Chi–Li. He could scarcely collect his thoughts sufficiently to curse his master, or Wang, or the robber Lao–Shen. Ai ai ya! His heart was stupid, his brain was stupid, his ideas were stupid! He could think no more about his tea nor his rice. Ai ai ya! What a fool he had been to enter the service of a man who wanted to come to sea! He would give up his pigtail, he would shave his head, he would become a bonze, if only he could get back to dry land. A yellow dog— yes, a yellow dog— was devouring his liver and his stomach. Ai ai ya!

With a good south breeze, the Sam–Yep ran by the three or four miles of sandy shore that here lay from east to west. This part of the gulf was almost deserted; important shipping traffic did not extend beyond a radius of twenty miles from the estuary of the Pei–Ho, and a few merchant junks on short cruises, and about a dozen fishing–boats were all that could be seen near the shore, while out to sea the line of the horizon was quite unbroken.

Observing that all the fishing–boats, even those of only five or six tons' burden, carried one or two small cannon, Craig and Fry asked Captain Yin the reason, and were told that it was for protection against pirates.

"Pirates!" exclaimed Craig. "Surely there are no pirates in the Gulf of Pe–Chi–Li?"

"Why not in the Gulf of Pe–Chi–Li as much as in all the seas of China?" rejoined the captain. And he gave a merry laugh that displayed his two rows of fine white teeth.

"You don't seem to be much afraid of them," said Fry.

"Haven't I two guns to keep them at a distance?" said Yin.

"Are the guns loaded?" Craig inquired.

"Generally; not now."

"Why not now?" asked Fry.

"Because I have no powder on board," calmly responded the captain.

"Then what good will your guns do you?" the Americans exclaimed simultaneously.

The captain laughed again. "If my junk were loaded to the hatchways with opium or tea," he said, "then it would be worth defending; but with its present cargo―"

He shrugged his shoulders with an expressive gesture.

"You gentlemen seem to have rather a dread of pirates," he said presently, "and yet you have no property of any value on board."

Craig and Fry informed him that they had special reasons for wishing to avoid an attack, and asked how the pirates could be aware beforehand of the nature of his freight. Captain Yin pointed to a white flag that was fluttering half–mast high above their heads.

"Pirates know what that means," he said; "they will not take the trouble to rob a vessel laden with coffins."

"But perhaps," insisted Craig, "they may think the white flag is only a ruse, and will come on board to see for themselves."

"Let them come, then," said Yin jauntily; "they will soon have to go back the same way as they came."

Craig and Fry said no more, but they could not altogether share the captain's equanimity. A junk of three hundred tons burden, even though carrying nothing but ballast, would be no mean prize for freebooters. They could, however, do no more than quietly await the chapter of accidents, and hope for the best.

The captain, for his part, had neglected nothing that could insure a favorable voyage. Before setting sail he had sacrificed a cock to the presiding deities of the sea, and its feathers were still suspended from the foremast; a few drops of its blood had been sprinkled on the deck, and a small cup of wine thrown overboard had completed the propitiatory offering.

But whether it was that the cock had not been sufficiently plump, or the wine had not been of the choicest vintage, somehow or other the capricious deities seemed not to have been satisfied. In the course of the day, quite unexpectedly, for the weather was bright and clear, the junk was overtaken by a tremendous gale, an event which the keenest of mariners could not have foreseen. It was about eight o'clock in the evening, and the Sam–Yep was preparing to double the promontory beyond which the coastline extended in a northeasterly direction; that done, she might run straight before the wind, and Captain Yin had every reason to think that in less than twenty–four hours she would be at Foo–Ning.

As the time for arriving drew near, Kin–Fo's impatience to gain possession of the letter increased considerably. With Soun the yearning to get on shore amounted almost to frenzy. Craig and Fry remembered that in three days more their responsibilities concerning the client of the Centenarian would be at an end; at midnight on the 30th of June his policy would expire, the premium had not been renewed, and all anxiety would cease.

Just as the Sam–Yep reached the entrance of the Gulf of Leao–Tong the wind veered suddenly to the northeast; it subsequently changed to the north, and two hours later was blowing from the northwest. If Captain Yin had, had a barometer on board, he would have noticed that the mercury had made a sudden fall, a rapid rarefaction of the air that betokened an approaching typhoon, the motion of which was lightening the atmospheric strata. Had he been acquainted with the observations of Paddington and Maury, forewarned, he would have endeavored to alter his tack and steer to the northeast, in the hope of getting beyond the attraction of the tempest.

But he did not understand the use of the barometer, and was ignorant of the law of cyclones. He had sacrificed a cock, and therefore was he not insured against every calamity? Nevertheless, superstitious Chinaman though he was, he proved an excellent seaman on the occasion, and his instinct seemed to serve him as well as the science of a European captain.

The typhoon was not of a large extent, consequently its velocity was very great, the rotatory motion being little less than sixty miles an hour. Fortunately it carried the Sam–Yep to the east, otherwise she would have been driven on to a coast where she must inevitably have perished. At eleven o'clock the tempest reached its height. Captain Yin was not laughing now, but he had lost none of his presence of mind. With his hand constantly on the helm, he skillfully steered the light vessel, which rose easily upon the waves, and in all his orders he was ably seconded by his crew.

Kin–Fo had left his cabin, and, clinging to the bulwarks, was contemplating the sea and sky. The clouds, torn to shreds by the hurricane, were hurrying in masses over the surface of the water, while the waves, all white in the blackness of the night, seemed to be sucked up by the typhoon far above their ordinary level. He was neither surprised nor alarmed. This storm was only one of the series of misfortunes that his ill–luck had prepared for him. In this summer season other people might have made a short passage of sixty hours under favorable circumstances; but such luck was not to be his.

Craig and Fry were much more uneasy, not for themselves, but for the interests of the Centenarian. Only let their lives be preserved until midnight on the 30th of June, and the conscientious agents cared not what became of themselves or their charge afterward.

As for Soun, to his mind the junk was in no greater danger now than she had been ever since he came on board. Stormy or calm, it was all alike to him. Ai ai ya! The passengers down in the hold had the best of it; they felt neither rolling nor pitching; he wished he were among them. Ai ai ya!

For the space of three hours the junk really was in a critical position. A false turn of the helm, and she would have been lost, for the sea would have dashed over her deck; and, although, like a pail, she could not capsize, there was every chance that she might fill and founder. Tossed as she was by the waves, it was impossible to keep her in any constant direction, nor could any estimate be made as to the course she was taking.

By some happy chance, however, she ultimately gained without serious damage the center of the great atmospheric disturbance that extended over an area of sixty miles. Here, like a placid lake in the midst of an angry ocean, was a tract of smooth water, two or three miles in area, where the wind was scarcely perceptible.

The junk, which had been driven thither under bare poles, was now in safety. Toward three o'clock in the morning the fury of the cyclone ceased almost as if by magic, and the angry waters round the little lake subsided into calmness. But when daylight dawned, no land was in sight. The Sam–Yep was the center of a barren waste of sea and sky.

Chapter 17

The Cargo

"Where are we, Captain Yin?" Kin–Fo asked after the danger was all over.

"I hardly know," replied the captain, who had quite recovered his jovial looks.

"Are we in the Gulf of Pe–Chi–Li?"

"Not unlikely."

"Or do you think we have been driven into the Gulf of Leao–Tong?"

"Very probably."

"Where, then, are we going to land?"

"Just where the wind takes us."

"When?"

"That's more than I can tell you."

Kin–Fo was beginning to lose his temper. "A true Chinaman always knows his whereabouts," he said, quoting a Chinese proverb.

"Ah! That means on land, not at sea!" answered the captain, grinning from ear to ear.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Kin–Fo impatiently.

"Nor do I see anything to cry at," retorted Yin.

It might be true that there was nothing really alarming in the situation, but it was quite obvious that the captain did not know where he was; without a compass he had no means of judging in what direction his ship had been driven by the tempest, during which the wind had been blowing from such different quarters, and while, with her sails furled and her helm useless, she had been the mere plaything of the hurricane.

But whether the junk had been carried into one gulf or the other, there could be no hesitation now about the necessity of putting her head to the west; ultimately, land must be sighted in that direction. Had it been in his power, the captain would forthwith have hoisted sail and followed the sun, which was once more shining, though only faintly; but there was not a breath of wind; the typhoon had been succeeded by a dead calm; not a ripple played upon the smooth undulations that just lifted up the vessel and allowed her to sink again without moving her a foot forward. A heavy vapor hung over the sea, and the general aspect was in striking contrast to the commotion of the previous night. It was one of those calms locally known as "white calms."

"And how long is this going to last?" said Kin–Fo.

"No telling," replied the captain with perfect composure; "at this season of the year calms sometimes continue for weeks."

"Weeks!" repeated Kin–Fo; "do you suppose I am to stay here for weeks?"

"No help for it, my dear sir, unless by good luck we can manage to get taken in tow."

"Confound the junk! What a fool I was to be caught coming on board!"

"Will you allow me to offer you two little bits of advice? Be like other folks, and don't grumble at the weather which you can't alter; and, secondly, do as I am going to do; go to bed and get some comfortable sleep."

And with a philosophy that was worthy of Wang himself, the captain retired to his cabin, leaving only a few men on deck.

For the next quarter of an hour Kin–Fo paced backward and forward, drumming his fingers upon his folded arms; then, casting a glance at the desolate scene around, he made up his mind to go to his cabin, and left the deck without saying a word to Craig and Fry, who had been lounging meanwhile against the taffrail, not speaking a word to each other, but no doubt holding mutual intercourse by silent sympathy. They had heard all that passed between Kin–Fo and the captain, but to say the truth, they really were not concerned at the delay which was giving so much annoyance to the young man; if they were losing anything in time, they were gaining in security, for as long as Kin–Fo was on board the Sam–Yep, was he not free from any chance of being attacked by Lao–Shen? Moreover, the period of their engagement and consequently of their responsibility was close at hand; two days more and a whole band of Tai–pings might assail him, and it would not be their duty to risk a hair of their heads to protect him. Practical Yankees as they were, they were devoted to the client of the Centenarian so long as he represented the sum of 200,000 dollars; they would be utterly indifferent when that interest lapsed.

Under these circumstances there was nothing to prevent them from sitting down to their luncheon with a capital appetite. The food was excellent; they partook of the same dishes, consumed the same quantities of bread and the same number of slices of meat; they drank Bidulph's health in the same number of glasses of wine, and afterward smoked precisely the same number of cigarettes. If not by birth, they were Siamese twins in taste and habit.

The day passed on without incident or accident; there was still the "woolly" sky; still the smooth sea; and nothing to disturb the general monotony.

Toward four o'clock in the afternoon, poor Soun made his appearance on deck. He reeled, he staggered as if he were drunk, though probably he had never in all his life been so abstemious before. His complexion was blue and green, verging to yellow; probably when he got on shore again it would be as usual, orange; when he was angry he would flush into crimson, and thus in a very short period his countenance would have exhibited all the colors of the rainbow.

Keeping his eyes half–closed, and not daring to look beyond the bulwarks, he stumbled up to Craig and Fry, and said, "Are we nearly there?"

"No," they answered.

"Not nearly?"

"No."

"Ai ai ya!" he moaned, and flung himself down at the foot of the mast, wriggling as if in convulsions, which made his miserable little queue shake like a puppy's tail.

Earlier in the day Captain Yin had given orders, very prudently, for the hatchways to be opened that the sun might dry up the water that during the typhoon had been shipped into the hold. Craig and Fry had been promenading the deck, repeatedly pausing and looking down through the middle hatchway, until at last, prompted by curiosity, they agreed to go below.

Except just where the light was admitted from above, the hold was very dark; but after a short time the eye grew accustomed to the obscurity, and it was quite possible to distinguish the way in which the singular cargo had been stowed. The hold was not divided, as in most junks, into partitions, but was open from end to end, and the whole of it appropriated to this strange consignment, the crew having to find their berths forward. Piled up one upon another, and arrayed on both sides, were the seventy–five coffins bound for Foo–Ning, all fastened quite securely so as to prevent any oscillation that might imperil the ship, a passage being left along the middle, the end of which, remote from the hatchway, was sunk in gloom.

Craig and Fry walked silently and softly, as though they were treading the floor of a mausoleum. There was something of awe mingling with their curiosity. The coffins were of all sizes, a small proportion of them being costly and elaborate, the generality perfectly plain. Of the emigrants whom necessity drives across the Pacific, it is very few that make a fortune or realize a competency in the diggings of California, or in the mines of Nevada and Colorado; nearly all die as impoverished as they went out; but all, whatever their wealth or poverty, are without exception and with equal care brought back to their native land.

About ten of the coffins were made of valuable wood adorned with all the richness that Chinese fancy could devise; but the rest were merely four planks with ends, put together in the roughest manner and painted yellow; every one of them bore the name and address of its tenant, and as Craig and Fry passed along they kept on reading such names as Lien–Foo of Yun–Ping–Fu, Nan–Loon of Foo–Ning, and remarked that there seemed no confusion; every corpse could be conveyed to its destination to await in field, in orchard, or in plain, its ultimate interment in Chinese soil.

"Well packed!" whispered Craig.

"Well packed!" whispered Fry.

They spoke calmly as they would about a consignment of ordinary goods from San Francisco or New York.

Having proceeded to the farther end of the passage where it was most gloomy, they turned and looked along the avenue of that temporary cemetery toward the light; they were on the point of returning, when a slight sound attracted their attention. "A rat!" they said.

"I should think a rat would prefer a cargo of rice," said Craig.

"Or of maize," added Fry.

The noise continued. It was like a scratching with nails or claws. It was on the starboard side, and came from about the level of their heads; consequently from the upper tier of coffins.

The men hissed as they would to scare away a rat. Still the scratching went on. They listened with bated breath. Evidently the sound came from inside one of the coffins.

"Some Chinaman buried before he was dead," said Craig.

"And just come to life again," continued Fry.

They went close up to the coffin, and laid their hands upon it; it did not admit of a doubt that there was movement within. "This means mischief!" they muttered.

The same idea had simultaneously occurred to them both, that a new danger was threatening the client in their charge.

Raising their hands, they could feel that the lid of the coffin was being gently lifted up. With the most perfect composure they waited to see what would follow next. They did not make a movement. It was too dark for them to distinguish anything plainly, but they were not mistaken in thinking they saw a coffin lid slowly opening on the larboard side.

A whisper was next heard. A whisper followed in reply.

"Is that you, Cono?"

"Is that you, Fa–Kien?"

"Is it to be to–night?"

"Yes, to–night."

"Before the moon rises?"

"Yes, in the second watch."

"Do the others know?"

"They have all been told."

"I shall be glad to get out of this."

"Ay, so shall we all."

"Thirty–six hours in a coffin is no joke!"

"You are right."

"But Lao–Shen ordered it."

"Hush, hush! What's that?"

The last exclamation was caused by Craig and Fry making an involuntary movement at the mention of Lao–Shen; but they did not speak nor move again.

There was a slight pause, after which the coffin–lids gently closed themselves again, and there was complete silence.

Stealthily on hands and knees, Craig and Fry made their way back through the hatchway on to the deck, and in a moment were locked in their own cabin, where they could converse without risk of being overheard.

"Dead men who talk—" began Craig.

"Are not dead yet," concluded Fry.

The mere mentioning of Lao–Shen's name under these somewhat ghastly circumstances had been enough to reveal the whole truth. It was evident that the Tai–ping had employed some agents who had found their way on board, and it did not admit of much doubt that they had only succeeded by the connivance of the captain. The coffins had been disembarked from the American ships, and had, had to remain for a day or two to await the arrival of the Sam–Yep, and during that time a number of them had been broken open, the corpses removed, and their places supplied by the confederates of Lao–Shen. How it had transpired that Kin–Fo was among the passengers of the Sam–Yep was a mystery they could not explain; but they recollected that they had noticed suspicious characters on board from the time of embarkation, and acknowledged that it would be a thing discreditable to themselves if, after all, the office they represented should lose the two hundred thousand dollars at stake.

They were not the men to lose their presence of mind; they were facing a grave and unexpected emergency; there was not much time in which to form their plans; the deed was to be done before the second watch; there was not much scope for deliberation; there was only one conclusion to be arrived at— before the second watch Kin–Fo must be away from the junk.

How the escape was to be made was a question more easy to ask than to answer. The only boat belonging to the ship was a cumbrous craft that it would take the whole crew to lower to the water, and if the captain were an accomplice in the plot, the crew could not be enlisted to lend a helping hand. The project of using the boat had to be abandoned.

Seven o'clock, and the captain was still in his cabin. Was it not likely he was only waiting in solitude until the appointed time had passed, and the deed was done? The junk was floating adrift; there was no watch, why should there be? A sailor, all alone, was slumbering in the bows. If only the appliances were at hand, the opportunity for escape was complete. Had they been anxious to get away from a fire–ship, they scarcely could have been more excited. A thought struck them; there was not a moment to spare to discuss it; it must be put into execution now, at once.

Opening the door of Kin–Fo's cabin, they touched him gently; he was fast asleep; they touched him again.

"What do you want with me?" he said.

They told him as concisely as they could all the facts; he did not seem at all alarmed; he pondered a moment, and asked, "Why not throw the rascals overboard?"

"That is quite out of the question," they replied. "There are too many against us."

"Then are we to do nothing?" said Kin–Fo.

"Do as we tell you," answered Craig; "we have made our plans."

"Let me hear," said Kin–Fo, in some surprise.

"Take this dress; ask no questions; put it on, and be ready!"

The men opened a parcel they had brought with them. It contained four sets of the swimming apparatus just invented by Captain Boyton. They gave a set to Kin–Fo, saying, "We have more for ourselves, and one for Soun."

"Go and fetch Soun," he bade them.

And Soun was brought in, looking as if he were suffering from an attack of paralysis.

"You are to put this on," said his master.

But Soun was incapable of helping himself, and while he kept on moaning, "Ai ai ya," the others contrived to drag him into the waterproof attire.

Eight o'clock, and they were all equipped; they looked like four great seals just going to plunge into the frozen waters, although it must be owned that Soun was almost too flabby in his condition to be compared to so lithe a creature.

The junk continued to float in absolute stillness upon the unruffled sea; Craig and Fry opened one of the portholes of the cabin, and quietly dropped Soun down without more ado. Kin–Fo cautiously followed; Craig and Fry only stayed to make sure that they had provided themselves with all the necessary appurtenances, and plunged in after them.

So quiet were all their movements that no one on board was aware that four of the passengers had quitted the Sam–Yep.

Chapter 18

Afloat

Captain Boyton's apparatus is a gutta–percha suit, consisting of leggings, tunic, and cap. But though impervious to water, the material would not be impervious to cold, were it not that the garments are made with an outer and an inner layer between which may be admitted a certain quantity of air. The air serves the double purpose of maintaining the apparatus upon the surface of the water and preventing the chill that would otherwise ensue from long exposure.

The joints of the separate pieces of the costume are perfectly water–tight. The leggings terminate beneath the feet with heavy soles, and are clasped at the waist with a metal belt, which is made wide enough to allow free movement, to the body. The jacket is fixed into the belt, and has a solid collar, to which in its turn is attached the cap, which is drawn tightly over the forehead, cheeks and chin by means of an elastic border, leaving only the eyes, mouth, and nose exposed.

Several gutta–percha tubes are attached to the jacket to admit the air, which can be regulated to any density, so that a traveler may float upright with the water up to his neck or only to his waist, or may lie horizontally upon its surface, all the time in perfect safety and with complete liberty of action.

The practical utility of the apparatus has already been proved in a way that does much credit to its inventor. To make it complete there are several other appurtenances: a waterproof bag that is slung over the shoulder, and contains various useful articles; a small pole which can be attached to the foot by a socket, and carries a small sail; and a light paddle, which may be used either as an oar or a rudder, as circumstances may require.

Thus equipped, Kin–Fo, Craig, Fry, and Soun floated off, and a very few strokes of their paddles carried them a considerable distance from the junk. The night was very dark, and even if Captain Yin or any of his men had been on deck, they would not have perceived the fugitives, and no one could have the slightest suspicion that they were escaping.

The second watch, the time mentioned by the pretended corpse, would be about the middle of the night, consequently Kin–Fo and his companions had several hours' grace during which they hoped to get a safe distance from the Sam–Yep. A very slight breeze was beginning to ruffle the surface of the water, but not enough to make them depend on any other means except their paddles for their progress.

In a very few minutes Kin–Fo, Craig, and Fry, grew accustomed to their strange equipment, and were able to maneuver so well, that they could, without a moment's hesitation, assume any attitude or make any movement they desired. Soun for a time had to be taken in tow, but he very quickly recovered his energies, and felt far more at his ease than he had been on board the junk. All sensation of seasickness had left him, and the relief of finding himself floating up to his waist in the sea, instead of being subject to the pitching, tossing, and heaving of a ship, was very great.

But although he was no longer ill, he was in considerable alarm. Nothing possessed him but that he should be devoured by sharks, and he was continually drawing up his legs, as though he felt them already being snapped at. His fears, it must be owned, were not altogether without foundation.

It was a strange vicissitude to which fortune had now called Kin–Fo and his companions. On and on they went, lying almost flat upon their backs to paddle, and rising to the perpendicular when they required a rest. An hour after leaving the junk the party found themselves about half a mile distant. They came to a standstill, resting on their paddles, and began to hold a whispered consultation.

"That rascal of a captain!" said Craig, in order to broach the subject that was of course uppermost in his mind.

"And that scoundrel Lao–Shen!" added Fry.

"Are you surprised?" said Kin–Fo; "I am never surprised at anything now."

"I cannot understand how those fellows found out that you were going to take passage on board that junk," replied Craig.

"Well, it doesn't matter much now that we are safe," said Kin–Fo composedly.

"Safe!" exclaimed Craig; "We are not safe as long as the Sam–Yep is in sight."

"What is to be done, then?" inquired Kin–Fo.

"We must take some refreshment and go on again, so that we may be out of sight at daybreak."

Admitting a little more air into his apparatus, Fry allowed himself to rise till the water was about level with his waist, and then opening his bag, took out a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass with brandy, and handed it to Kin–Fo, who, without requiring any pressing, drained it to the bottom. Craig and Fry helped themselves, and Soun was not forgotten.

"How are you now?" asked Craig, when Soun had emptied his glass.

"Much better, thank you," said Soun; "but I should like something to eat."

"We will have our breakfast at daybreak, and then you shall have some tea."

Soun made a wry face.

"Cold?" he asked.

"No; hot," said Craig.

Soun's countenance brightened.

"But how will you manage that?" he inquired.

"I shall make a fire."

"Then why wait till the morning?" urged Soun.

"Why, you stupid fellow, you don't want Captain Yin and his accomplices to see our light, do you?"

"No, O no."

"Then have patience, and wait till the proper time."

The appearance of the party during this colloquy was irresistibly comical; the slight undulation of the water kept them bobbing up and down like so many corks, or like the hammers of a pianoforte when the keys are touched. Kin–Fo presently remarked that the wind was beginning to freshen.

"Let us set our sails, then," said Craig and Fry.

But just as they were preparing to erect their little masts, Soun uttered a loud cry of terror.

"Be quiet, you fool!" angrily whispered his master, "do you want us to be discovered?"

"I thought," muttered Soun, "I saw a monster— a shark— quite close to me; I thought I felt it, too."

Craig carefully examined the surface of the water, and said that it was quite a mistake on Soun's part; no shark was there at all.

Kin–Fo laid his hand on his servant's shoulder.

"Understand, Soun, that you are not to be a coward," he said. "You are not to cry out, mind, even if your leg is snapped off."

"If you make any outcry," added Fry, "we will cut a slit in your jacket, and send you to the bottom of the sea, where you may bellow to your heart's content."

Thus adjured, the unfortunate Soun, though by no means consoled, dared not utter another word. It seemed as though his troubles were never to have an end, and he began to think that the miseries of seasickness were scarcely worse than the tortures of terror.

Kin–Fo had been right when he said that the wind was freshening. Even if it were only one of the slight breezes that subside at' sunrise, it must be utilized to increase the distance between them and the Sam–Yep. When Lao–Shen's people discovered that Kin–Fo was no longer in his cabin, they would assuredly begin to look about for him, and if any of them were in sight, the ship's boat would greatly facilitate their capture; consequently it was of the utmost importance to be far away before dawn.

The wind fortunately was blowing from the east. Whether they had been carried by the hurricane into the Gulf of Leao–Tong, the Gulf of Pe–Chi–Li, or even into the Yellow Sea, a westerly course must in any case take them toward the coast, where they had every chance of being picked up by some merchant vessel on its way to the mouth of the Pei–Ho, or by one of the fishing–boats plying day and night about the shore. If, on the contrary, the wind had come from the west, and the Sam–Yep had been driven south of Corea, Kin–Fo and his companions would have had no chance of rescue; they must either have been borne away on to the open sea, or floated ultimately on to the shores of Japan as lifeless corpses, which the dress they wore would not allow to sink.

It was now about ten o'clock. The moon would rise shortly before midnight, and there was no time to be lost. According to Craig and Fry's directions, preparations were made for hoisting sail. The process was very simple. Each gutta–percha suit had a socket attached to the sole of the right foot, which was intended to hold the short pole that served for a mast. The party first of all stretched themselves on their backs, brought their foot within reach of their hands by bending the knee, and fixed the mast in its place, having previously attached the halyard of the little sail to its extremity. At a signal from Fry and Craig, each man simultaneously pulled at his halyard, and hoisted the upper corner of his triangular sail to the top of the mast. The halyards were then made fast to the metal waistbands, the sheets were held in the hand, and they all sailed off like a flotilla of "scaphanders," an appellation to which they had more right than the submarine workmen to whom it is often improperly applied.

In the course of ten minutes they were able to steer with perfect ease and security; they kept equal pace with one another, and glided easily along the water like so many seagulls with their wings extended to the breeze. Their progress was greatly facilitated by the condition of the sea; not a wave disturbed the long quiet undulation of its surface, so that there was no splash or surf to inconvenience them.

Two or three times, Soun, forgetting Craig and Fry's instructions, was foolish enough to turn his head, and in so doing swallowed several mouthfuls of salt water. Experience, however, soon taught him better. Still he could not overcome his dread of sharks. It was explained to him that he ran less risk in a horizontal than in a vertical position, since the formation of a shark's jaw obliges it to turn over on to its back before seizing its prey, and consequently it is difficult for it to grasp a floating object; it was furthermore pointed out to him that these voracious brutes prefer inanimate bodies to those with any power of motion. Soun accordingly made up his mind not to keep still for a moment, and was all the happier for his efforts.

For about an hour the "scaphanders" sailed on. A shorter time would not have sufficed to carry them out of reach of the junk, a longer would have exhausted them; already their arms were getting weary with the strain put upon them by the tension of the sails.

Craig and Fry gave the signal for stopping. Instantly the sheets were loosened, and all, with the exception of Soun, who preferred remaining on the cautious side, resumed a perpendicular position.

"Five minutes' rest, sir," said Craig to Kin–Fo.

"And another glass of brandy," said Fry.

Kin–Fo assented willingly to both propositions. A little stimulant was all they required at present; having dined shortly before leaving the junk, they could well afford to wait for food until the morning. Neither did they suffer at all from cold; the layer of air between their bodies and the water protected them from any chill, and their temperature had not abated a degree since they made their start.

Was the Sam–Yep still in sight? Fry carefully swept the eastern horizon with a night–glass that he drew from his bag, but no sign of her was visible against the dim background of the sky. The night was rather foggy; there were very few stars, and the planets looked almost like nebulae in the firmament. The waning moon, however, would not be long in rising, and would probably disperse the mist.

"The rascals are still asleep," said Fry.

"They haven't taken advantage of the breeze," said Craig.

Kin–Fo, tightening his sheet, and spreading his sail to the wind, now professed himself ready to make another start, and accordingly they all resumed their course, the wind being not quite so strong as before.

As they were proceeding toward the west, they would be unable to observe the moon as she rose in the east; her light, however, would necessarily illuminate the opposite horizon, of which it was important for them to make a careful observation. If instead of a clearly defined circle between sea and sky, the line should be broken and refract the lunar rays, they might be certain that the shore was in sight; and as the coast was everywhere open and unbeaten by surf, a landing could be effected without danger in almost any part.

About twelve o'clock a faint light began to play upon the vapors overhead, a sign that the moon was rising above the water. Neither Kin–Fo nor his companions turned their heads. Again the breeze had freshened, and while it helped to disperse the fog, was carrying them along with considerable rapidity, so that quite a furrow of foam followed in their wake. The atmosphere became clearer and clearer; the constellations shone out more brightly, and the moon, changing from a coppery red to a silvery white, soon illumined the whole of the surrounding space.

All at once Craig uttered a loud oath.

"The junk!" he cried.

"Down with the sails!" exclaimed Fry.

In an instant the four sails were lowered, and the masts removed from their sockets. All the party resumed an upright position, and looked behind them. There, too truly, was the outline of the junk, with all sails spread, about a mile away.

Captain Yin, they did not doubt, had become aware of Kin–Fo's escape, and had at once set out in pursuit. Unless the fugitives could contrive to avoid discovery on the bright surface of the water, in another quarter of an hour they would be in the hands of the captain and his accomplices.

"Heads down!" said Craig.

His order was understood. A little more air was ejected from the apparatus, and all four men sank until only their heads emerged from the waves. There they waited without a sound or a motion.

The junk was advancing rapidly, its upper sails casting great shadows on the sea. In five minutes' time it was within half a mile of them, and they could see the sailors moving to and fro, and the captain at the helm. All at once a great shout was heard; a crowd of men had rushed upon the deck, and were apparently attacking the crew. The uproar was terrible; yells of rage and execration alternated with shrieks of agony and despair. Then all was still; the clamor was hushed; nothing was heard but a constant splash, splash, at the side of the junk, indicating that bodies were being thrown overboard.

After all, then, Captain Yin and his crew had not been in league with Lao–Shen and his troop; the poor fellows, on the contrary, had themselves been the victims of the band of rascals who had smuggled themselves on board with no other design than that of gaining possession of the junk. The pirates had, had no idea that Kin–Fo was a fellow–passenger, and were he discovered now, it was certain that neither he nor any of his companions could expect to find mercy at their hands.

The Sam–Yep continued her course. She was close upon them now, but by the happiest chance she cast upon them the shadow of her sails. For an instant they dived beneath the waves. When they rose again, the junk had passed, and they were safe.

A corpse that was floating by they recognized as that of Captain Yin, with a poignard in his side. For a time the ample folds of his garments sustained him upon the surface of the water. Then he sank, never to rise again.

Thus by a foul massacre had perished the genial, lighthearted commander of the Sam–Yep.

Ten minutes later the junk had disappeared in the west, and Kin–Fo, Craig, Fry, and Soun were all alone in the waste of water.

Chapter 19

A Tiger-shark

In the course of three hours day began to break, and before it was quite light the junk was out of sight. Though sailing in the same direction, the "scaphanders" had of course been unable to keep pace with her, and she was already nine or ten miles away.

All danger from that quarter was therefore at an end; nevertheless the situation was not altogether satisfactory. Far as the eye could reach there was no indication of land, nor was there a single vessel of any kind in sight; whether they were in the Gulf of Pe–Chi–Li or in the Yellow Sea was still uncertain.

The direction taken by the junk, however, demonstrated that sooner or later land would be found toward the west, and, as a slight breeze still ruffled the waters, it was advisable to continue sailing that way.

It was now necessary to satisfy the cravings of hunger, which, after a ten hours' fast, were very keen.

"We will make a good breakfast," said Craig and Fry.

Kin–Fo gladly assented. Soun smacked his lips with delight, and for a time quite forgot his fear of being devoured.

The waterproof bag was again in requisition. Fry produced some bread and some excellent preserved meat, and the meal, though not as elaborate in its menu as an ordinary Chinese repast, was nevertheless most heartily enjoyed.

The bag contained provisions enough for one more day, by which time Craig and Fry said they might all hope to be on shore. Kin–Fo asked them what ground they had for such a hope? They replied that their good luck seemed to be returning to them; they were free of the dangerous junk, and never since they had, had the honor of attending Kin–Fo had they been in so secure a position as now.

"All the Tai–pings in the world, sir, could not reach you here," said Craig.

"And considering that you are equivalent to two hundred thousand dollars, you float excellently well," said Fry.

Kin–Fo smiled.

"It is all owing to you, gentlemen," he said, "that I am afloat at all. Had it not been for you, I should have had the fate of poor Captain Yin."

"And so should I," echoed Soun, gulping down a huge mouthful of bread.

"You will not be the losers for your attention," Kin–Fo continued; "I shall never forget how much I owe you."

"You owe us nothing," said Craig; "we are the servants of the Centenarian."

"And our great hope is," said Fry, "that the Centenarian will never owe anything to you."

Whatever might be their motive, Kin–Fo could not be otherwise than touched by their zealous devotion.

"We will talk about this again," said he, "when Lao–Shen has restored that unfortunate letter."

Craig and Fry smiled significantly, but made no reply.

Presently, in fun, Kin–Fo asked Soun to bring him some tea.

"All right," said Fry, before Soun had time to reply to his master's joke.

Again opening his bag, he produced a little appliance which may well be reckoned an indispensable accompaniment to the Boyton apparatus, and which serves the double purpose of a lamp and a stove. It consisted simply of a tube five or six inches in length, furnished with a tap–top and bottom, the whole being inserted into a sheet of cork, like the floating thermometers used in public baths.

After placing it upon the surface of the water, Fry turned on the taps, one with each hand, and in an instant a flame started from the extremity of the funnel, sufficiently large to diffuse a perceptible heat.

"There's your stove," said Fry.

Soun could not believe his eyes.

"Why, you made fire out of water!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, he made it of water and phosphuret of calcium," said Craig.

The instrument, in fact, was constructed so as to utilize a singular property of phosphuret of calcium, which in contact with water produces phosphuretted hydrogen. The gas burns spontaneously, and cannot be extinguished by either wind or rain. It is consequently employed now for lighting all the improved life–buoys, which immediately they touch the water, eject a long flame, by means of which any one who has fallen overboard by night is at once able to see the means thrown out for his rescue.

While the hydrogen was burning, Craig held over it a little saucepan, containing some fresh water which he had drawn from a little keg, also carried in the bag. As soon as the water was boiling, he poured it into a teapot, in which a few pinches of tea had already been placed. The whole party then partook of the decoction, and even Kin–Fo and Soun, although it was not brewed in Chinese fashion, had no fault to find with it. It formed, in fact, a most acceptable addition to the breakfast. All that they required now was some knowledge of their whereabouts. At no distant day a sextant and chronometer will unquestionably be added to the Boyton apparatus, and then shipwrecked mariners will no longer be at a loss to ascertain their position upon the ocean.

Thus refreshed the little party once again set sail. For hours the wind blew steadily, and they rarely had to use their paddles as rudders. The gentle gliding movement in a horizontal position had a tendency to make them sleepy; but under the circumstances sleep must not be thought of, and in order to resist it, Craig and Fry smoked cigars, after the fashion of dandies in a swimming bath.

Several times the "scaphanders" were startled by the gambols of some marine animals that put Soun into a great state of alarm; these were nothing more, however, than harmless porpoises, probably astonished at the strange beings whom they now saw for the first time invading their native element. In great herds, they darted along with the speed of arrows, their huge slimy bodies glistening like emeralds beneath the water; now and then leaping up some five or six feet into the air, and turning a somersault that displayed the remarkable suppleness of their muscles. So great was their speed, far surpassing that of the fleetest ships, that Kin–Fo, in spite of the jerks and plunges, would fain have been taken in tow by one of them.

Toward noon the wind lulled into short puffs, and finally dropped altogether. The little sails fell idly against the masts; no longer was there any tension upon the sheets, nor any furrow of foam left behind in the wake.

"This is bad," said Craig.

"Very unfortunate," assented Fry.

They all came to a standstill. The masts were taken from the sockets, the sails struck, and each member of the party, having placed himself in an upright position, examined the horizon.

It was still deserted. Not a sail nor a trail of smoke was in sight. A scorching sun had absorbed all vapor and rarefied the air. The water would not have been cold for the travelers, even had they not been protected by their double covering of gutta–percha.

Sanguine as Craig and Fry might be as to the final issue of events, they could scarcely fail to be somewhat uneasy now. They had no means of judging how far they had sailed in the course of the last sixteen hours, and the nonappearance of any coast or passing vessel became more and more inexplicable. Still, neither they nor Kin–Fo were the men to despair as long as hope remained, and as they had provisions enough for another day, and the weather showed no symptoms of growing stormy, they determined to make good use of their paddles, and to push on. The signal for starting was given, and now on their backs, now on their faces, they persevered in their westerly course.

Progress was far from rapid. To arms unaccustomed to the work, the manipulation of the paddles was very fatiguing. Poor Soun was full of complaints; and he lagged so much behind the others that they frequently had to wait until he caught them up. His master scolded, abused, and threatened him, but all in vain; Soun knew that his pigtail was safe in his gutta–percha cap; still, the fear of being left behind sufficed to prevent him from falling very far into the rear.

Toward two o'clock some sea–gulls were observed, and although these birds are often seen far out at sea, their appearance could not but be taken as an indication that land was most probably within an accessible distance.

An hour later they all got entangled in a bed of seaweed, from which they had considerable trouble to extricate themselves; they floundered about like fish in a drag–net, and were obliged to use knives to set themselves free. The result was a delay of about half an hour, and an outlay of strength which could ill be spared.

At four o'clock, greatly exhausted, they made another halt. A fresh breeze had sprung up, but unfortunately it was from the south. As they could not trim their sails, they were afraid to use them at all, lest they should be carried northward and lose the headway they had made toward the west.

The halt was rather long, for, besides resting their weary limbs, they were glad to recruit themselves again with their provisions; but the dinner was not so festive a meal as the breakfast had been. Matters did not look quite so promising now; night was coming on; the wind was increasing from the south, and no one knew precisely what to do.

Kin–Fo leaned in gloomy silence upon his paddle, his brows knit, but more with vexation than alarm. Soun kept on grumbling and whining, and began to sneeze as though he were attacked with influenza. Craig and Fry felt that something was expected of them, but were puzzled how to act.

By a happy chance, a solution came to their bewilderment. About five o'clock, pointing suddenly toward the south, they both exclaimed,

"A sail!"

Sure enough, about three miles to windward, a vessel was bearing down toward them, and, if she held her present course, would probably pass within a short distance of the spot where they were. Not a moment was to be lost in making their way toward her. The opportunity for deliverance must not be allowed to slip. Instantly the paddles were brought into use, and nearer and nearer drew the vessel in the freshening breeze. It was only a fishing–smack, but it indicated that the land could not be very far distant, for the Chinese fishermen rarely venture far out to sea.

Encouraging the others to follow, Kin–Fo paddled with all his might, darting over the surface of the water like a skiff; and Soun, in his eagerness not to be left behind, worked away so hard that he fairly outstripped his master.

Half a mile more, and they would be within earshot of the boat, even if they had not already been observed. The fear was, that the fishermen, when they saw such strange creatures in the water, might take to flight. Nevertheless the attempt to reach them must be made.

The distance to be accomplished was growing inconsiderable, when Soun, who was still in advance, gave a startling cry of terror:

"A shark! A shark!"

And it was no false alarm. About twenty paces ahead could be seen the fins of a tiger–shark, a voracious creature peculiar to these waters, and truly worthy of its name.

"Out with your knives!" shouted Craig and Fry.

The weapons, such as they were, were quickly produced. Soun, meantime, deeming prudence the better part of valor, had beat a hasty retreat behind the rest. The shark was rapidly bearing down upon them, and for an instant his huge body, all streaked and spotted with green, rose above the waters. It was at least sixteen feet in length, a truly hideous monster!

Turning half over on to its back, it was preparing to make a snap at Kin–Fo, who, quite calm and collected, planted his paddle on its back, and, with a vigorous thrust, sent himself flying far out of the way. Craig and Fry drew close up, ready either for attack or defense.

The shark dived for a second, and returned to the charge, its huge mouth bristling with four rows of cruel teeth. Kin–Fo attempted to repeat his former maneuver, but this time the paddle came in contact with the creature's jaw, and was snapped off short. Half lying on its side, the shark was just rushing once more upon its prey, when the water became blood–red. Craig and Fry, with the long blades of their American knives, had succeeded in penetrating the tough skin of the brute. The hideous jaw opened and closed again with a terrible snap. The shark seemed in agonies, and began to lash the water with its formidable tail, one stroke catching Fry on his side, and dashing him ten feet away. Craig uttered a cry of pain, as if he had received the blow himself. But Fry was not hurt; his gutta–percha covering had protected him from injury, and he returned to the attack with redoubled vigor.

The shark turned and turned again. Kin–Fo had contrived to lodge the end of his broken paddle in the socket of its eye, and, at the risk of being cut in two, managed to hold it firmly there, while Craig and Fry endeavored to pierce the creature's heart. Their attempt was evidently successful, for almost directly the shark, with one last struggle, sank beneath the bloody waters.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted Craig and Fry, brandishing their knives in triumph.

"Thanks! Thanks!" was all Kin–Fo could say.

"No thanks to us," said Craig; "two hundred thousand dollars was too good a mouthful for that brute!"

Fry cordially assented.

And where, meantime, was Soun? The coward, making off as fast as his paddle would carry him, had got within three cables' length of the fishing–boat; but his precaution was almost the means of his coming to grief.

The fishermen, perceiving what they supposed to be a strange animal in the water, prepared to catch it as they would a seal or a dolphin, and a long rope with a hook attached was thrown overboard. The hook caught Soun by the waist–belt, and slipping upward, made a rent in his gutta–percha jacket the whole length of his back. Sustained now only by his inflated leggings, he rolled right over with his head in the water, and his heels in the air.

Kin–Fo, Craig, and Fry had by this time reached the spot, and were calling out to the fishermen in good Chinese. Great was the alarm of the men on finding themselves accosted by what they supposed to be "talking seals." Their first impulse was to set sail and make off, but Kin–Fo at last convinced them that he was a Chinaman like themselves, and he and the two Americans were taken on board.

Soun was then turned the right way up by means of a boat–hook, and one of the fishermen caught hold of his pigtail for the purpose of hauling him on to the boat. The pigtail came off bodily in the man's hand, and down went Soun again into the water. The fishermen, by throwing a rope round his waist, succeeded, with considerable difficulty, in getting him into the boat.

Almost before he could get rid of the quantities of salt water that he had swallowed, Kin–Fo walked up to him, and said:

"Then that pigtail of yours was false, after all?"

"Ah, yes, sir," replied Soun, "knowing your ways, I should never have ventured to enter your service with a real one."

The tone in which he spoke was so irresistibly comical, that Kin–Fo burst into a fit of laughter, in which the others joined.

The fishermen were from Foo–Ning, and were now only about five miles from the very port to which Kin–Fo wanted to go.

Toward eight o'clock that evening, they were safely landed at Foo–Ning, and divesting themselves of their Boyton apparatus, once more resumed their ordinary appearance.

Chapter 20

Resignation of Office

"Now for the Tai–ping!" were Kin–Fo's first words on the following morning, after he and his fellow–adventurers had passed a night of well–earned repose. They were now upon Lao–Shen's field of action; it was the 30th of June; matters were at a crisis. Would Kin–Fo come out conqueror in the strife? Would he have the chance of negotiating for the restoration of his letter, before Wang's ruthless agent should deal the fatal stab into his bosom?

The Americans interchanged significant glances, and reechoed his words, "Now for the Tai–ping!"

The arrival of the party on the previous evening in their singular costume had caused a great commotion in the little port of Foo–Ning. The objects of public curiosity, they had been followed by a crowd to the door of the inn, where the money that Craig and Fry had taken the precaution to put in their bag, procured them clothes adapted for the present circumstances. Had they not been numerously surrounded, they could hardly have failed to notice one Celestial in particular, who never left their track. Their surprise would have been considerable had they known that he was at watch all night at the inn–door, and that in the morning he was still to be found on the same spot.

Consequently there were no suspicions in their mind, when the man accosted them as they left the inn, and offered his services as a guide. He was about thirty years of age, with nothing in his appearance to indicate that he was otherwise than honest. Craig and Fry, however, cautious to the last, inquired whither he wished to guide them.

"To the Great Wall, of course," said he. "All visitors to Foo–Ning go to see the Great Wall, and as I know the country well, I thought you might accept my services to show you the way."

Kin–Fo interposed to inquire whether the country was safe for traveling. The guide assured him that it was perfectly secure.

"Do you know anything of a certain Lao–Shen hereabouts?" inquired Kin–Fo.

"O yes, Lao–Shen the Tai–ping," replied the guide, "but there is nothing to fear from him this side of the Wall; he will not venture to set foot on Imperial territory; he and his crew are only seen in the Mongolian Provinces."

"Where was he seen last?" asked Kin–Fo.

"In the neighborhood of the Tchin–Tang–Ho, only a few lis from the Wall."

"And how far is it from Foo–Ning to the Tchin–Tang–Ho?"

"About fifty lis."

"Very well; I engage you to conduct me to Lao–Shen's camp."

The man started.

"You shall be well paid," Kin–Fo added.

But the guide shook his head; he evidently did not care to pass the frontier.

"To the Great Wall," he said, "no farther. It would be at the risk of my life to go beyond."

Kin–Fo offered to pay him any sum that he pleased to demand, till at last he wrung from the man a reluctant consent to undertake the business.

Turning to the Americans, Kin–Fo told them that of course they were free to go or not, as they liked.

"Wherever you go," said Craig.

"We go also," said Fry.

The client of the Centenarian had not yet ceased to be of the value of 200,000 dollars.

The agents appeared to be perfectly well satisfied as to the trustworthiness of their guide, and to have no apprehension of the danger which was likely to threaten beyond the great barrier that the Chinese have erected to defend themselves from the incursions of the Mongolian hordes. Soun was not consulted as to whether he wished to accompany the party or not; go he must.

Five camels accordingly were purchased, together with the small quantity of harness necessary for their equipment. A stock of provisions and a supply of weapons were also procured, and the party started under the direction of their guide.

The preparations had consumed so much time, that it was one o'clock in the afternoon before they were fairly on their road. The guide, however, made sure of reaching the Great Wall by midnight, where they would make a temporary camp, and if Kin–Fo still persisted in his determination, they would cross the frontier on the morrow.

The country about Foo–Ning was undulated, and the road, upon which the yellow dust rose in clouds, wound through richly cultivated fields, a sign that the travelers had not yet quitted the productive territory of the Chinese Empire.

The camels marched with a slow, measured tread, each carrying its rider comfortably ensconced between its two great humps. Soun greatly approved of this mode of traveling, and thought that in this way he should not object to journey even to the world's end. The heat, however, was very great, the hot air being refracted from the soil and producing strange mirages, like vast seas, which vanished almost as suddenly as they appeared, much to the satisfaction of Soun, to whom the prospect of another sea voyage opened visions of unmitigated horror.

No conversation was possible under the circumstances. The guide, who seemed to be of a taciturn nature, always took the foremost place, and although the dense masses of dust materially narrowed his range of vision, he never hesitated which way to follow, even at crossroads, where there was no sign–post. Craig and Fry, quite satisfied as to his honesty, were free to direct all their attention to Kin–Fo. Naturally, as the time grew shorter, their anxiety increased; now or never was the time to bring them face to face with the foe they dreaded.

Kin–Fo meanwhile was forgetting all the anxieties of the present and future in making a retrospect of the past. The unintermitted evil fortune of the last two months made him feel seriously depressed. From the day that his correspondent at San Francisco sent him the news of the loss of all his fortune, had he not passed through a period of ill–luck that was truly extraordinary? What a contrast between his existence of late, and the time when he possessed advantages which he had not the sense to appreciate! Would misfortune terminate with his regaining possession of the letter? Should he at last have the tender care of the sweet Le–ou to compensate him for his troubles, and make him forget the difficulties by which he had been beset? His thoughts bewildered him, and Wang, the philosopher and friend of his youth, was no longer present to comfort and advise him.

His reverie was suddenly interrupted by his camel coming so sharply in contact with that of the guide, that he was nearly thrown to the ground.

"What are you stopping for?" he asked.

"It is eight o'clock, sir," said the conductor, "and I propose that we halt and have our supper; we can continue our journey afterward."

"But it will be dark, will it not?" objected Kin–Fo.

"There is no fear that I shall lose my way; the Great Wall is not more than twenty lis ahead, and we had better give our animals some rest."

Kin–Fo assented to the proposal, and the whole party came to a halt. There was a small deserted hut by the side of the road, and a little stream where the camels might be watered. It was not dark, and Kin–Fo and his companions could see to spread their meal, which they afterward ate with an excellent appetite.

Conversation did not flow rapidly. Two or three times Kin–Fo tried to get some information about Lao–Shen, but the guide generally shook his head, evidently desiring to avoid the subject. He merely repeated that Lao–Shen himself never came on this side of the Great Wall, although he added that some of his band occasionally made their appearance.

"Buddha protect us from the Tai–ping," he concluded.

While the guide was speaking, Craig and Fry were knitting their brows, looking at their watches, and holding a whispered consultation. "Why should we not wait here quietly until to–morrow morning?" they asked presently aloud.

"In this hut!" exclaimed the guide. "Far better to be in the open country; we shall run much less risk of being surprised."

"It was arranged that we were to be at the Great Wall to–night," said Kin–Fo, "and at the Great Wall I mean to be."

His tone was such as to brook no contradiction, and the Americans could not do otherwise than submit. Soun, though half paralyzed with fear, dared not protest.

It was now nearly nine o'clock; the meal was over, and the guide gave the signal to start. Kin–Fo prepared to mount his camel; Craig and Fry followed him. "Are you quite determined, sir, to put yourself into Lao–Shen's hands?"

"Quite determined," said Kin–Fo; "I will have my letter at any price."

"You are running a great risk," they pleaded, "in going to the Tai–ping's camp."

"I have come too far to retreat now," said Kin–Fo, with decision; "as I told you before, you may do as you please about following me."

The guide meantime had lighted a small pocket lantern. The Americans drew near, and again looked at their watches. "It would be much more prudent to wait till to–morrow," they again persisted.

"Nonsense!" said Kin–Fo. "Lao–Shen will be just as dangerous to–morrow or the day after as he is to–day. My decision is unalterable. Let us be off at once."

The guide had overheard the latter part of the conversation. Once or twice previously, when Craig and Fry had been trying to dissuade Kin–Fo from proceeding, an expression of dissatisfaction had passed over his countenance, and now, when he found them persisting in their remonstrance, he could not restrain a gesture of annoyance.

The motion did not escape Kin–Fo, and he was still further surprised when the guide, as he was assisting him to mount his camel, whispered in his ear, "Beware of those two men."

Kin–Fo was on the point of asking him to explain himself, but the man put his finger on his lips, gave the signal for starting, and the little caravan set off on its night journey across the country.

The guide's mysterious speech had aroused an uneasy suspicion in Kin–Fo's mind; and yet he could not believe that, after two–months' devoted attention, his two protectors were about to play him false. Yet why had they tried to dissuade him from paying his visit to the Tai–ping's camp? Was it not for that very purpose that they had left Pekin? Was it not to their interest that Kin–Fo should regain possession of the letter that compromised his life? Truly their conduct was inexplicable.

Kin–Fo kept to himself all the perplexity which was agitating his mind. He had taken up his position behind the guide; Craig and Fry followed him closely, and for a couple of hours the journey was continued in silence.

It was close upon midnight when the guide stopped and pointed to a long black line in the north that stood out clearly against the lighter background of the sky. Behind the line several hill–tops had already caught the moonlight, although the moon herself was still below the horizon.

"The Great Wall!" he said.

"Shall we get beyond it to–night?" inquired Kin–Fo.

"Certainly, if you wish it."

"By all means, yes!"

"I must first go and examine the passage," said the guide. "Wait here till I come back." The camels were brought to a standstill, and the guide disappeared.

Craig and Fry stepped up to Kin–Fo. "Have you been satisfied with our services, sir, since we have been commissioned to attend you?" they inquired in a breath.

"Quite satisfied."

"Then will you be kind enough to sign this paper as a testimonial to our good conduct during the time you have been under our charge?"

Kin–Fo looked with some surprise at the leaf torn from a notebook that Craig was holding out to him.

"It is a certificate which we hope to have the pleasure of exhibiting to our principal," added Fry.

"Here is my back to serve you as a desk," said Craig, suiting the action to the word, and stooping down.

"And here is a pen and ink with which to sign your name," added Fry.

Kin–Fo smiled, and did as he was requested. "But what is the meaning of all this ceremony at this time of night?" he asked.

"Because in a very few minutes your interest in the Centenarian Assurance Office will have expired," said Craig.

"And you may kill yourself, or allow yourself to be killed, just which you please," said Fry.

Kin–Fo stared with astonishment; the Americans were talking in the blandest of tones; but he did not at all comprehend their meaning. Presently the moon began to rise above the eastern horizon.

"There's the moon!" exclaimed Fry.

"To–day, the 30th of June, she rises at midnight" said Craig.

"Your policy has not been renewed," said Fry.

"Therefore you are no longer the client of the Centenarian," added Craig.

"Good–night, sir," said Fry politely.

"Good–night," echoed Craig, with equal courtesy.

And the two agents, turning their camels' heads in the opposite direction, disappeared from view, leaving Kin–Fo in speechless amazement.

The sound of their camels' hoofs had scarcely died away, when a troop of men, led on by the guide, seized upon Kin–Fo, helpless to defend himself, and captured Soun, who was rushing away in the hope of making his escape.

An instant afterward, both master and man were dragged into the low chamber of one of the deserted bastions of the Great Wall, the door of which was at once fastened behind them.

Chapter 21

Back to Shang-hai

The Great Wall of China, constructed by the Emperor Tin–Chi–Hooang–Ti in the third century, is nearly 1,400 miles long and extends from its two jetties in the Gulf of Leao–Tong to the province of Kan–Sou, where it degenerates into very insignificant dimensions. It is an uninterrupted succession of double ramparts, defended by bastions fifty feet high and twenty wide; the lower part is of granite, the upper of bricks, and it boldly follows the outline of the mountain tops on the Russo–Chinese frontier. On the Chinese side the wall is now in a very bad condition, but on the side facing Manchuria it is still well preserved, and its battlements maintained in formidable array.

Neither army nor artillery defends this line of fortification; Russian, Tartar, Kirghis, as much as the Chinaman, is free to pass its barrier; and the wall, moreover, fails to protect the Empire from the visitation of the fine Mongolian dust which the north wind brings down sometimes as far as the capital.

After passing a miserable night on a heap of straw, Kin–Fo and Soun were next morning forced to take their way beneath the postern of these deserted bastions. They were escorted by a band of twelve men, who no doubt were in Lao–Shen's service. The guide who had hitherto conducted them had disappeared; it became more and more plain that it had been design and not chance that had thrown him in their way; the rascal's hesitation about venturing beyond the Great Wall was a mere ruse to avert suspicion; and he too beyond a question had been acting under the orders of the Tai–ping.

"Of course you are taking me to Lao–Shen's camp?" Kin–Fo said to the leader of the escort.

"We shall be there in little more than an hour," answered the man.

It was a confirmation to Kin–Fo's conjecture, of which he did not stand in much need; yet it satisfied him. After all, was he not being conducted to the very place for which he had set out? And was he not in the way to get the chance of recovering the paper that kept his life in jeopardy? He maintained his composure perfectly, leaving all outward exhibition of alarm to poor Soun, whose teeth were chattering with the most abject fear.

Beyond the wall, the troop did not continue its journey along the great Mongol road, but diverged at once into a steep pathway to the right through the mountainous district of the province, the guard so carefully surrounding their prisoners that any attempt to escape, even had they been inclined to venture it, would have been out of the question.

Their advance was as rapid as the steepness of the road would allow, and in about an hour and a half, on turning the corner of a projecting eminence, they came in sight of a building in a half–ruined condition; it was an old bonze–house built upon the brow of a hill, and a curious monument of Buddhist architecture. It did not seem at all likely that any worshipers would now be found to frequent a temple in such a deserted part of the frontier; but it was a situation not badly suited for a highwayman, and if Lao–Shen had settled there, he had made a judicious selection for himself.

In reply to a question of Kin–Fo, the leader of the escort told him that it was Lao–Shen's residence.

"Take me to him at once," said Kin–Fo.

"We have brought you on purpose," answered the man.

Having been deprived of their fire–arms, Kin–Fo and Soun were brought into a wide vestibule that had formed the atrium of the ancient temple. Here were about twenty fierce–looking men, all armed and attired in the picturesque costume of highwaymen. With the utmost calmness, Kin–Fo passed through the double row they formed on his entrance; Soun having to be pushed forcibly by his shoulders.

The farther end of the vestibule opened on to a staircase cut in the solid wall, and leading into the heart of the mountain to a crypt beneath the temple by windings so complicated that no one unaccustomed to the place could have found his way.

Lighted by torches carried by the escort, the prisoners were conducted down thirty steps, then for about a hundred yards along a narrow passage, until they found themselves in a large hall, which the additional glare of more torches still left very dim. Massive pillars carved with grotesque heads of the monsters of Chinese mythology supported the low arches of the roof, which sprang from their keystones with spreading moldings.

A low murmur that ran through the hall made Kin–Fo aware that it was not deserted; so far from that, its recesses were filled with men, as if the entire confraternity of Tai–pings had been summoned to some special ceremony.

At the extreme end of the crypt, on a wide stone platform, stood a man of enormous stature; he bore all the appearance of a president of some secret tribunal; three or four attendants stood close beside him, as if acting the part of his assessors, and at a sign from him they gave orders that the prisoners were to approach.

"Here is Lao–Shen," said the leader, pointing to the gigantic figure on the platform.

Stepping forward with firm step, Kin–Fo in the most direct manner entered upon the business that was uppermost in his mind.

"I am Kin–Fo," he began. "Wang has been your old comrade and confederate. I gave Wang a certain paper with a certain contract. Wang has transferred that paper to you. I come to tell you that, that contract is not valid now, and I demand the paper at your hands."

The Tai–ping did not stir a muscle; had he been of bronze he could not have been more rigid.

"You can demand your own price," continued Kin–Fo, and then waited for an answer.

But no answer came.

Kin–Fo went on:

"I am ready to give you a draft on any bank you choose. I am prepared to guarantee its payment to any messenger you send. Name the sum for which you surrender the contract."

Still no answer.

Kin–Fo repeated his request more emphatically than before.

No answer.

"Five thousand taels, shall I offer?"

Still silence.

"Ten thousand?"

Lao–Shen and all around him were as mute as the statues.

Kin–Fo grew anxious and impatient.

"Do you not hear me?"

Lao–Shen bowed his head gravely.

"I will give you thirty thousand taels. I will give you all you would get from the Centenarian. I must have the paper. Name, only name the price."

The Tai–ping stood mute as before.

Wild with excitement Kin–Fo clenched his hands and dashed forward to the platform.

"What price will you take?"

"Money will not buy that paper," at last said the Tai–ping sternly; "you have offended Buddha by despising the life that Buddha gave you, and Buddha will be avenged. Death alone can convince you of the worth of the gift of life which you have esteemed so lightly."

The voice with which this sentence of decision was uttered prohibited any reply; and even had Kin–Fo been anxious to say a word in his own defense, the opportunity was not afforded him. A signal was given, and he was forthwith seized, carried out, and thrust into a cage, the door of which was immediately locked. In spite of the most pitiable howlings, Soun was subjected to the same treatment.

"Ah, well!" said Kin–Fo to himself, when he was left to his solitude, "I suppose those who despise life deserve to die!"

Yet death was not so near as he imagined. Hours passed on and execution was delayed; he began to speculate what terrible torture the Tai–ping might have in store for him. After a while he was conscious that his cage was being moved, and he felt that it was being placed upon some vehicle. Evidently he was to be conveyed to a distance. For nearly eight hours there was the tramp of horses, and the clatter of weapons carried by an escort, and he was tumbled and jolted about most unmercifully. Then came a halt. Shortly afterward the cage was removed to another conveyance; it was not long before it began rolling and pitching; there was the noise, too, of a screw, and the ill–fated tenant was aware that he was on board a steamer.

"Are they going to throw me overboard?" he wondered; "well, it will be a mercy if they spare me any worse torture!"

Forty–eight hours elapsed. Twice a day a little food was introduced into the cage by a trap–door, but he never could see the hand that brought it, and never could get a reply to the question that he asked.

He had plenty of time to think now. He had been years and years and felt no emotion; surely he was not destined to die without emotion; he had, had enough and more than enough during the last few weeks; he must die now, but he had the intensest longing to die in the light of day; he shuddered at the prospect of being cast unawares into the deep sea; oh, that he could live, if it were only to see once more his beloved Le–ou! To see her no more; the thought was terrible!

The voyage came to an end; he was yet alive; but surely his last moments must have come; here was the crisis; every minute was a year—, a hundred years!

To his unbounded surprise, he felt his cage carried along and deposited upon terra firma; he heard a commotion outside, and in a few minutes the door was opened; he was seized, and a bandage fastened tightly over his eyes, and he was pushed violently along. Finding after a time that the steps of the men who were driving him along began to hesitate, he concluded that they had arrived at the scene of his execution, and shouted out—,

"Hear my last petition. I have but one request; unbandage my eyes; let me see the daylight; let me die as a man that can face death!"

"Grant the criminal the boon he asks," said a solemn voice, severely, in his ears; "let the bandage be untied."

The bandage was removed.

Kin–Fo quivered with amazement. Was he dreaming? What was the meaning of all this?

Before him was a table sumptuously spread. Five guests were smiling, as if they were expecting his arrival. Two seats were still unoccupied.

"Friends, friends!" he cried in the bewilderment of his excitement; "tell me, am I mad?"

A few moments restored him to composure, and he looked around; there was no mistake; before his eyes were Wang and the four friends of his early youth, Yin–Pang, Hooal, Pao–Shen, and Tim, with whom just two months previously he had feasted in the cabin of the yacht on the Pearl River at Canton. Here he was in the dining–room of his own yamen at Shang–Hai.

"Speak, Wang, and tell me," he cried, "what means all this? Is it you or your ghost?"

"It is Wang himself," replied the philosopher smiling.

Kin–Fo looked puzzled. Wang then went on, "You have come home again after a rough lesson. You owe that lesson to me. It has been my doing that you have had so much to bear. But it has been for your good, and you must forgive me."

More perplexed than ever, Kin–Fo looked at him, but said nothing.

"All," proceeded Wang, "is soon explained. I undertook, at your solicitation, the task of putting you to death, just in order that the commission should not be given to other hands. I knew sooner than even you did, that the report about your ruin and the loss of your property was all false; and I knew, in consequence, that though you then wanted to die, you would very soon want to live. I have made my former comrade, Lao–Shen, my confidant. Lao–Shen is now one of the most faithful of the friends of the government; he has long since submitted to established rule; but in this affair he has cooperated with me; and your own experience of the last few days tells you how: he has brought you face to face with death, and thus has taught you the lesson I determined you should learn of the value of life. My heart bled for you at the trouble and the suffering you had to endure; it was a hard and bitter thing to me to abandon you to what you would have to undergo; but I knew there was no other, no easier way in which you could be made successful in the pursuit of happiness."

Wang could say no more. Kin–Fo had caught him in his arms, and was pressing him to his heart.

"Poor Wang!" he said, "what pain you have suffered on my account! And besides, what risks you have run! I shall never forget that day at the Bridge of Palikao."

The philosopher laughed, almost merrily.

"Yes; it was a cold bath for any one; but for a man of fifty–five, in a burning sweat after a long chase, it was rather a trial both for his years and for his philosophy. But never mind, no harm came of it. A man never moves so quickly as when he is doing good for others."

"For others," repeated Kin–Fo; "yes, I do not doubt it; the true secret of happiness is to be working for the good of others."

The conversation, which was becoming grave, was interrupted by the introduction of Soun. The poor fellow was looking as miserable as might be expected after a sea–voyage of nearly two days; it would be difficult to describe exactly the hue of his complexion, but he expressed himself unboundedly glad to find himself in his master's home again.

After releasing Wang from his embrace, Kin–Fo went round and affectionately shook hands with each one of the guests.

"What a fool I have been all my life!" he said.

"But you are going to be a perfect sage henceforth," replied Wang.

"My first act of wisdom, then," Kin–Fo began, "must be to set my affairs in order. I shall not be content until I have that little document again in my possession which has been the cause of all my tribulations. If Lao–Shen is in possession of it, he must give it up, in case it should fall into unscrupulous hands."

There was a general smile.

"Our friend's adventures," said Wang, "have most undoubtedly wrought a change in his character; he is no longer the indifferent mortal he was."

"But you do not tell me," persisted Kin–Fo, "where that written contract is; nothing can satisfy me till I have seen it burnt, and its ashes scattered to the winds."

"You seem in earnest," said Wang.

"Most seriously," replied Kin–Fo; but where is the paper? Has Lao–Shen given it back?

"Lao–Shen never had it."

"Then you have it yourself; you will not refuse to restore it to me? I suppose you do not want to retain it as a guarantee against a repetition of my folly."

"Certainly not," said Wang; "but it is not in my possession; still more, it is not at my disposal."

"What!" cried Kin–Fo; "you do not mean that you have been imprudent enough to intrust it to other hands?"

"I confess I have parted with it,"Wang replied.

"How? Why? When? To whom?" exclaimed Kin–Fo in his impatience.

"I gave it up—" continued Wang calmly.

"To whom? Tell me," interrupted Kin–Fo.

"You do not give me time to tell you; I gave it up to one who is willing to restore it to you?"

And almost before he had finished speaking, Le–ou stood in front of him, holding the paper in her delicate fingers. Concealed behind a curtain, she had heard all that passed, and delayed no longer to come forward.

"Le–ou!" cried Kin–Fo, and was hastening to clasp her to his bosom.

But she drew back, as if she were going to retreat as mysteriously as she had appeared.

"Patience, patience!" she said, "business before pleasure; does my brother know and acknowledge his own handwriting?"

"Too well," he answered; "there is not the second fool in the world who ever would have written it."

"Is that your real opinion?" she asked.

"My real opinion," said Kin–Fo.

"Then you may burn the paper," said Le–ou; "and therewith annihilate the man who wrote it."

With the most beaming of smiles she handed him the paper which so long had been the torture of his life; he held it to a candle, not removing his eyes from it until it was consumed.

Then turning to his promised bride, he pressed her lovingly to his bosom.

"And now," he said, "you will come and preside at our reunion here. I feel as if I can do justice to the feast."

"And so do we," rejoined the guests.

A few days later and the term of the court–mourning had expired. With even greater lavishness than before the ceremony was arranged, and the marriage took place immediately.

The affection of the loving couple was unalterable; prosperity awaited them throughout their future life; and only by a visit to the yamen in Shang–Hai could the measure of their mutual happiness be realized.

The End