Cathay ... Marco Polo ... Milton's description of the Chinese moving their wheelbarrows along the land by means of sails ... many poetic visions marched across my mind at the question.
"I'd like to, right enough."
"Then here's a chance for you," and he handed me a copy of the Bulletin, pointing out an advertisement for cattlemen on the steamboat, South Sea King, about to take a cargo of steers from Queensland to Taku, province of Pechi-li, Northern China.
"What are they sending cattle away up there for?"
"Supplies for troops ... The Boxer outbreak, you know ... go down to the number given in the advertisement, and I'm sure they'll sign you on as cattleman, if you want the job."
"All right. I'll go now."
"No," looking me over dubiously, "you'd better not go there or anywhere else, in your present rig ... you're too ragged to apply even for such work ... hang around till morning, and I'll go home to-night and bring you a decent coat, at least. Your coat is worse than your trousers ... though they are ravelled at the bottoms and coming through in the left knee ... every time you take a step I can see a glint of white through the cloth, and," walking round me in a tour of inspection, "the seat might break through at any moment." All this was said without a glint of humour in his eyes.
Next morning the sky-pilot came down very late. It was twelve. But he had not forgotten me. "Here's the coat," and he solemnly unwrapped and trailed before my astonished gaze a coat with a long, ministerial tail. I put it on. The tail came below the bend of my knees. I laughed. The sky-pilot did not.
Finally he stepped back, cracked a solemn smile, and remarked, "You do look rather odd!"