“Excuse me, Mr. Trasmere.”
Jesse shot a scowling glance at the interrupter of his reveries. The stranger was young and a head taller than the old man, well dressed, remarkably confident.
“Eh?”
“You don’t remember me—Holland? I called upon you about a year ago over the trouble you had with the municipality.”
Jesse’s face cleared.
“The reporter? Yes, I remember you. You had an article in your rag that was all wrong, sir—all wrong! You made me say that I had a respect for municipal laws and that’s a lie! I have no respect for municipal laws or lawyers. They’re thieves and grafters!”
He thumped the ferrule of his umbrella on the ground to emphasize his disapproval.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said the young man with a cheerful smile, “and if I made you toss around a few bouquets that was faire bonne mine. I’d forgotten anyway, but it is the job of an interviewer to make his subject look good.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“Our correspondent in Pekin has sent us the original proclamation of the insurgent, General Wing Su—or Sing Wu, I’m not sure which. These Chinese names get me rattled.”