Roy took the despatch from the captain and returned to the wireless house. There was the usual number of messages to send for the passengers, telling of a safe arrival, and by the time Roy came out of the wireless house again, the Lycoming lay snug in her dock. Hatches and ports were open, and the derrick booms were creaking as they hoisted from the hold great slingfuls of trunks and other baggage. The purser, as usual at such a time, was buried under an avalanche of work, and Roy spent the day helping him. He had formed a real affection for the purser, and was rapidly making himself invaluable to that official. Having assisted him once before, Roy was now somewhat familiar with the purser’s work. The thought that he was really helping his friend gave Roy genuine pleasure. He was so busy and so preoccupied that he did not notice the clamor and racket on the pier, as the ship was unloaded, or hear the roar and clatter from the water-front.
Night hushed the discordant noises of the day as effectually as though some one had clamped a lid down on them. The streets were already deserted and quiet when Mr. Robbins threw down his pen and heaved a deep sigh.
“There,” he exclaimed, “that’s a good day’s work—a mighty good day’s work. And the Bible tells us the laborer is worthy of his hire. Get your cap, Roy, and we’ll get something to eat. No ship’s grub for us to-night, eh?”
They went ashore, caught an up-town subway train in a few minutes, and got out at Worth Street. A short walk took them through an Italian district to Chinatown. Roy had never visited Chinatown before. He was so much interested in what he saw that the purser could hardly drag him away from the shop-windows. There were wonderful pieces of needlework on display, intricate and weird carvings of ivory and ebony, curious little trinkets and ornaments of jade and semiprecious stones, vases little and large, brass trays and ornaments, and a thousand other unfamiliar and strange objects. But what interested Roy more than anything else was the strange foods displayed in the provision shops. There were dried fish, dried fowls, dried meats, curious candies made of some gummy substance covered with queer little seeds, or dried orange-peel or other vegetable growths covered with a coating of sugar. There were Chinese cabbages, unlike any cabbage Roy had ever seen, for instead of being round or flat, they were tall and urn-like, or even cylindrical. There were curious creamy-white little things in big baskets that the purser said were bamboo shoots, and water-chestnuts that looked like lily bulbs.
The purser led the way to a restaurant in Pell Street. Its atmosphere was so strange and foreign that Roy was almost startled. Heavy, curiously wrought hangings decorated the walls. Great screens, ornamented with elaborate needlework, stood here and there. Dragons and curious birds were wrought on them. Grilles of elaborately carved ebony divided the dining-room into smaller compartments. The little tables and the stools about them were of teak-wood or ebony, elaborately carved by hand, and very heavy. Lustrous banners with heavy dragons on them hung here and there. Slit-eyed Chinese stood silent and inscrutable in their curious dress, ready to take orders. The odor that pervaded the place was unlike anything Roy had ever smelled. Partly it was the odor of cooking, partly of incense, partly of tobacco, though Roy was not able to analyze it. All he knew was that it was as unusual and striking as the bizarre decorations.
“Lots of people would not think of eating in a Chinese restaurant,” said the purser as they seated themselves, “but such a prejudice is unreasonable and foolish. Chinese cooks are clean. They are probably the best cooks in the world, not even excepting the French, who have such a great reputation. You see China swarms with a population really too great to be supported by the country’s resources. So the greatest thing in a Chinaman’s existence is the food problem. Everybody learns to cook, and to make delectable dishes out of almost nothing. In all the world there are no more delicious foods than some the Chinese make. As you probably don’t know what to order, I am going to take the liberty of ordering for us both.”
The purser called the waiter and ordered chicken omelette, fried noodles, a little chop suey, a ham omelette, some preserved kumquats, and some Chinese candy. He told the waiter to bring the dishes one at a time so that they would be warm. While the cook was preparing the order, the waiter brought two bowls of rice and a pot of tea, with sugar and some tiny cups. Mr. Robbins filled the cups and they sampled the beverage. Roy had never tasted such delicious tea. Nor had he ever seen rice cooked like that in the bowls. It was perfectly cooked yet dry and flaky. It was not at all the mushy stuff he had eaten in American homes.
“The Chinese,” explained Mr. Robbins, “eat rice just as we do bread. Most of their dishes are more or less greasy or soupy, and the rice takes up the gravy very nicely. Chinamen eat it with chop-sticks, and they will bring you some if you want to try it. But I suspect you will make much better weather of it if you use a fork.”
Roy laughed. “A fork for mine,” he said.
Presently the waiter brought a ham omelette. Mr. Robbins cut it in half and served it. “Bring the chop suey, too,” he said.