Tab Holland produced from his pocket a sheet of yellow paper covered with strange characters.
“We can’t get in touch with our interpreters and knowing that you are a whale—an authority on the language, the news editor wondered if you would be so kind.”
Jesse took the sheet reluctantly, gripped his bag between his knees and put on his glasses.
“‘Wing Su Shi, by the favour of heaven, humbly before his ancestors, speaks to all men of the Middle Kingdom,’” he began.
Tab, note-book in hand, wrote rapidly as the old man translated.
“Thank you, sir,” he said when the other had finished.
There was an odd smirk of satisfaction on the old man’s face, a strange, childlike pride in his accomplishment.
“You have a remarkable knowledge of the language,” said Tab, politely.
“Born there,” replied Jesse Trasmere, complacently, “born in a go-down on the Amur River and could speak the three dialects before I was six. Beat the whole lot of ’em at their own books when I was so high! That all, mister?”
“That is all, and thank you,” said Tab gravely, and lifted his hat.