Some minutes before eight o'clock Jack, by virtue of his pass, was admitted without a ticket to the platform at which the train for Harbin was drawn up. He had been compelled to take his farewell of Monsieur Brin, the compradore, and Hi Lo outside, much to the Frenchman's indignation. The line was very badly managed; the officials were soldiers, with no technical acquaintance with railway management. Trains were despatched from Moukden to Harbin, and from Harbin to Moukden, at any time that suited the officials at either end, without prearrangement, sometimes even without communication between the stations. On this particular train there was no distinction of classes, and Jack found himself one of some forty passengers packed into a carriage built for thirty. The company was exceedingly mixed. Russian officers were cheek by jowl with Chinese merchants; a huge long-bearded Russian pope was wedged between a German commercial traveller and a Sister with the red cross on her arm; at one end was a group of chattering Greek camp-followers, who brought out a filthy pack of cards long before the train started, and began a game of makao, which continued, with intervals for squabbling and refreshment, all the way to Harbin. Jack made himself as comfortable as he could in a corner, and prepared to sleep if the close proximity of his fellow-passengers and the stuffiness of the air allowed.
It was past nine o'clock before the train steamed out. Punctuality is a virtue non-existent on the Siberian railway. The journey taxed Jack's patience to the utmost. The line is single, doubled at intervals of five versts to allow of the passage of trains in opposite directions. The train was constantly being shunted into sidings, remaining sometimes for hours, no one could tell why; and one of the most annoying features of the constant stoppages was that the train, after running through a station where the passengers would have been glad to obtain refreshments, would come to a stand several versts beyond, where they had nothing to do but kick their heels and look disconsolately out on the country. On one of the sidings stood a goods train, two trucks of which were loaded with a large gun; it had no doubt been injured by a Japanese shell, and was being returned to arsenal for repair. In another train Jack noticed a truck crowded with poor wretches who appeared to be chained together—misdemeanants from the army, he surmised, on their way to one of the penal settlements in Siberia. At short intervals appeared the little brick huts of the soldiers guarding the line, and occasionally a group of three or four of those green-coated guards might be seen riding along at the foot of the embankment on their stout Mongol ponies.
Jack had travelled many times along the line, but not recently, and he was greatly interested in the amazing developments which it had undergone. New buildings of brick seemed to have sprung up like mushrooms along its course. Where formerly had been spacious fields of kowliang—the long-stalked millet of the country—with Chinese fangtzes few and far between, there were now wide bare stretches upon which Russian industry was erecting storehouses, engine-sheds, tile-covered residences for the officials. Some thirty-five miles from Moukden is Tieling, which, when Jack's train passed through at three o'clock in the morning—having taken just six hours to run that distance—seemed to be nothing but a collection of scaffolding, with Chinese bricklayers already at work, trowel in hand. Between Tieling and Harbin stretches an immense plain, fertile for the most part, and hitherto left almost unspoiled. Nowhere does the line pass through a Chinese village; these were purposely avoided by the Russian engineers from motives of policy, and in deference to native susceptibilities. They are for the most part out of sight from the railway. All that can be seen is, on the right, the broad rutty mandarin highway; on the left, a narrower road edging interminable fields of kowliang. There are few stations between Moukden and Harbin: at two, Tieling and Kai-chuang, the Russians had established their base hospitals.
Hour after hour passed. Jack whiled away a good part of the time by whittling sticks with his penknife, somewhat to the amusement of the Russian army doctor who sat next to him, and who did not appear to notice that the sticks were shaped to a definite size, and that, after several had been thrown away, two or three were placed in Jack's pocket. Many times the train was halted at a doubling to allow a troop train to pass, filled with Russian soldiers on the way to the front, shouting, singing, in the highest spirits. At one point an empty Red Cross train stood on a siding, having emptied its freight of wounded men at one of the hospitals.
During one of the stoppages the belaced official who acted as guard politely requested Jack to step into the station-master's office, where he was searched by one of the soldiers. He was thus left in no doubt that he was under surveillance, and when he got back to his carriage he found that his bag had been opened. He congratulated himself on his forethought in concealing his papers so effectually in his boot.
At the moment of saying good-bye the compradore had given him a piece of news that made him anxious to complete his journey. A Chinese employed at the station had told him that Anton Sowinski had booked a seat by the next day's train. It was by no means impossible that this train, if it happened to carry any important passengers, would overtake and pass the first somewhere on the line. The Pole was likely to spread the news of Mr. Brown's arrest, and if he should succeed in getting to Vladivostok before Jack the game would certainly be up.
At length, about forty-five hours after leaving Moukden, someone said that Harbin was in sight, and there was instantly a movement and bustle among the passengers.
"Keep your seat," said the doctor to Jack with a smile.
"Thanks! I know," said Jack with an answering smile.
The train slowed down, then stopped at the southern end of the bridge over the Sungari river. It was as though the engine were parleying with the sentry. On the right rose the barracks of the frontier guards, surrounded by a loopholed wall. At the bridge end were two guns framed in sand-bags, and watched by two sentinels. Across the river, above and below the bridge, an immense boom prevented traffic either up or down. While the train halted, an official came along the carriages, fastened all the windows, locked all the doors; to open them before the bridge was crossed entailed a heavy penalty. When all the passengers were thus secured, and there was no chance of any Japanese spy throwing a bomb on to the bridge, the train moved slowly on, passed more guns at the farther end, and came to rest at the spacious station in the Russian quarter of the town.