And now it was time to bid farewell to my kind hosts and start back to Peking. Thank goodness it was going to be fairly easy. Instead of the abominable cart I was going to float down the River Lan in a wupan, a long, narrow, flat-bottomed boat.
First I sent my servant with my card to the Tartar General to thank him for all his kindness. This brought Mr Wu down again with the General's card at the most awkward hour of course, in the middle of tiffin, and Mr Wu, much to my surprise, was dignified and even stately in full Chinese dress. He was all grey and black. His petticoat or coat or whatever it is called was down to his ankles and was of silk, he wore a little sleeveless jacket, and his trousers were tied in with neat black bands at his neat little ankles. So nice did he look, such a contrast to the commonplace little man I had seen before, that I felt obliged to admire him openly. Besides, I am told that is quite in accordance with Chinese good manners.
He received my compliments with a smile, and then explained the reason of the change.
“Must send shirt, collar, Tientsin, be washed. I very poor man, no more got.”
And Tientsin was three or four days by river, sometimes much more, as well as five hours by train! I felt he had indeed done me an honour when he had used up his available stock of linen in my entertaining, and to think I had only admired him when he was in native dress!
Another Chinese gentleman came in that day and was introduced to me. He contented himself with Chinese dress, and he had more English, though it was of a peculiar order.
“But I hate to hear people laugh at Mr Chung's English,” said the missionary who was a man of the world. “He was a good friend to me and mine. If it hadn't been for him, I doubt if I or my wife or children would be here now.”
It was the time of the Boxer trouble, and the missionary was stationed at Pa Kou where Mr Chung had charge of the telegraph station. The missionaries grew salads in their garden, which the head of the telegraphs much appreciated, and even when he felt it wiser not to be too closely in touch with the foreigners, he still sent down a basket for a salad occasionally. One day in the bottom of the basket he put a letter. “The foreign warships are attacking the Taku Forts,” it ran, “better get away. I am keeping back the news.”
But the missionary could not get away. Up and down the town he went, but he could get no carts. All the carters raised their prices to something that was prohibitive, even though death faced them. And then came the basket again for more salads and in the bottom was another letter.
“The foreign ships have taken the Taku Forts,” it said. “I am keeping back the news. Go away as soon as possible.”