Our inquiries ended, as we had dreaded, by attracting the attention of the police. Late in the afternoon, while we were lounging in the Home, an Englishman in khaki burst in upon us.
“Are you the chaps,” he began, “who are talking of starting for Bangkok on foot?”
“We’ve been asking the way,” I admitted.
“Well, save yourselves the trouble,” returned the officer. “There is no way. The trip can’t be made. You’d be killed sure, and your governments would come back at us for letting you go. I have orders from the chief of police that you are not to leave Rangoon except by sea, and I have warned the patrolmen on the eastern side of the city to head you off. Thought I’d tell you.”
“Thanks,” said James, “but we’ll hold down Rangoon for a while yet anyway.”
“Yes, I know,” laughed the Englishman. “So the government is going to give you a guide to show you the sights. Come in, Pearson!”
“Pearson” entered, grinning. He was a sharp-eyed Eurasian in uniform, gaunt of face and long of limb. The Englishman took his leave and the half-breed sat down beside us. When we left the Home he followed us to the monastery. When we slipped on our shoes next morning, he was waiting for us at the foot of the steps. He was a pleasant companion and his stories were well told; but we could no more shake him off than we could find work in Rangoon. For three days he camped relentlessly on our trail.
“Look here, James,” I protested, as we were breakfasting on Monday morning, “the longer we hang around Rangoon, the closer we’ll be watched. If ever we get away, it must be now, before they think we’re going.”
“But Pearson—” began James.
“There’s one scheme that always works with Eurasians,” I answered.