Wang the Ninth: The Story of a Chinese Boy

by B. L. Putnam Weale

The boy picked up this morsel of information ravenously and stored it in his mind.

"Our people will never allow them to advance," objected the first man.

"There has been continuous fighting for several days, and they will doubtlessly soon be driven back," agreed the second speaker, unwilling to be identified with any pessimism.

"Enough," said his companion. "Let us hasten on. It will soon be dark."

Once again the boy was left to his own devices. As soon as they had turned a corner he went and picked up his shoes and seated himself with his back to the Palace wall waiting for darkness.

Here was the whole problem made clear at last. The cat was only playing with the mouse. Until it had been made certain that the mouse could not escape—that is until the foreign army had been driven away, nothing would be done against the foreigners in the capital. The relieving army must be dealt with first.

The boy threw a stone angrily at some crows. Why shouldn't he run away, too? He played with the thought, and though he rejected it, it came back again and again. If they were all to be killed, he should go whilst there was yet time.

He struck his foot sharply down on the ground. No—he would not do it. He would go back. He had been trusted and he would not fail his trust. So when it was safe and quiet he crept back and reported what he had learnt.

After that days went by silently, days resembling one another as do peas from the same pod. They were beleaguered and yet not beleaguered; surrounded and yet not surrounded; imprisoned and still free. People cautiously slipped in and out, and kept in touch with the great city, and brought in food and news. Yet in spite of this, a heavy and depressing pall hung over the foreign quarter as though it contained only condemned persons. Men talked to one another in low voices as if they were afraid of being overheard. The slightest uncustomary sound made them start up and strain their ears, so that they might have the earliest inkling of disaster.

Sometimes Wang the Ninth was infinitely depressed by this paralyzed life. He would sit idly in a hidden corner with his knees drawn sharply up and his head between his hands, silently commiserating with himself as he thought over the myriad rumours, and wondering if he had not been an arrant fool not to run away as his mates had done. After all he had only been in foreign service less than two years. He did not owe so much. He was not like those who had lived half a lifetime among foreigners and been converted to their faith. He did not want to be killed and have his head carried around. His compatriots, who had not run away, were continually using that gloomy and resigned expression: fei-tei-ssu—"we shall surely die." That passivity always brought him excitedly to his feet like a shot fired in his ear.