He supposed my other trunks were in the hold.
“Of course. My heavy luggage was brought on board yesterday, and I hope that my valuable belongings were carefully handled.”
Oh, if the good Chink had guessed how proud I was of that one trunk, even though it was suspiciously light!
At last, on the 5th of December 1914, the steamer Mongolia weighed anchor.
In spite of the lovely weather and good food, on the very next day Mr. MacGarvin was suddenly taken ill. He himself did know what it was. Probably severe ptomaine poisoning, and the ship’s doctor was quickly sent for. He was a brilliant man, a thorough sportsman and ready for any joke. His concerned face took on an astonished expression when, instead of a patient at death’s door, he beheld my florid and sunburnt countenance.
I had confidence in him, and in a few words I explained my situation. I have seldom seen anyone’s eyes gleam with such pleasure as his did after I had confessed my sins to him. His uproarious laugh and warm handshake convinced me that I had chanced on the right man. The steward knocked at the door.
The ship’s surgeon assumed an anxious mien, whilst I groaned. The steward flitted in, and the American said to him in hushed, impressive tones: “Look here, Boy! This Master plenty ill, don’t disturb him, can’t get up before ten days; give him plenty good food, chosen by cook; always bring to him in bed. If Master want anything, you call me!”
During this speech I already held one end of the blanket in my mouth, and if it had lasted longer I would have swallowed the whole. Once more I took the centre of the stage.
Three days on the sea, and then came the first of the three Japanese harbours which I dreaded. The steamer ran peacefully into Nagasaki, and immediately a flood of custom-officers, policemen and detectives inundated the boat. The bell rang through the ship, and summoned passengers and crew for examination. And now the whole procedure started. The passengers were assembled in the saloon. Each was called by name; man, woman and child questioned by a commission consisting of police-officers and detectives; their papers closely examined; and they themselves overhauled by the Japanese doctor with regard to infectious diseases. Above all, they wanted to know which of them came from Kiao-Chow. The thirty-fifth name called was that of MacGarvin. Every one looked round, for, of course, no one had even seen him. Whereupon the ship’s surgeon approached, looked very serious, and whispered some dreadful news into the ear of his Japanese colleague.
Some fifteen minutes later I heard a hum of many voices before my cabin. The door was carefully opened. In walked the American ship’s surgeon, and in his wake crept two Japanese police-officers and the Japanese doctor. The poor victim of ptomaine poisoning lay in a huddled heap, moaning softly, and with nothing to be seen of him but a crop of hair.