Nobody could speak a word of English. In the course of five minutes I should say, the entire station staff of Pao Ting Fu stood around me, and vociferously gave me their views—on the weather and the latest political developments for all I know. If it was about the luggage I was no wiser. Some were dressed in khaki, some in dark cloth with uniform caps, and most had the wild hair that comes to the lower classes with the cutting off of the queue. There were about a dozen of them with a few idlers in blue cotton, patched, dirty, faded, and darned, and some of these wore queues, queues that had been slept in for about a week without attention, and they were all quite anxious to be nice to the foreign woman, and took turns in trying to make her understand. In vain. What they wanted I could not imagine. At last a lane opened, and I guessed the vociferating crowd were saying: “Here is the very man to tackle the situation.” There came along a little man in dark cloth who stood before me and in the politest manner laid a dirty, admonitory finger upon my breast He had a rudimentary knowledge of English but it was very rudimentary, and I remembered promptly that this was a French railway.
“Parlez-vous Français?” said I, wondering if my French would carry me through.
He shook his head. As a matter of fact English, pidgin-English, is the language of China, when another tongue is wanted, and my new friend's English was not at all bad—what there was of it. Though why I should go to their country and expect these people to understand me I'm sure I do not know.
“Your luggage is here,” said he very slowly, emphasising every word by a tap.
“Thank Heaven,” I sighed, “take me to it,” but he paid no heed.
“You”—and he tapped on solemnly—“must—send—your—husband.”
This was a puzzler. “My husband,” I said meekly, “is dead.”