Betty turned to Brachey; gave him her bag.
Outside the gate house the little caravan waited.
The mules were brought to their knees. Betty stepped, without a word, into the litter. Brachey closed the side door, and mounted his pony. The mules were kicked and flogged to their feet. The two soldiers in the lead set off around the city wall to the corner by the eastern gate, whence the main highway mounted slowly into the hills toward Ping Yang. As they turned eastward, a fourth muleteer, ragged and dirty, bearing a small pack, as the others, joined the party; a fact not observed by the white man, who rode close beside the litter.
But when they had passed the last houses and were out where the road began to sink below the terraced grain-fields, the new muleteer stepped forward. For a little space he walked beside the white man's pony.
Brachey, at last aware of him, glanced down at the ragged figure.
“It's a deuce of a note,” said the new muleteer, looking up and smiling, “that your courtesy should return like confounded boomerang on your head. I make thousands of apologies.”
Brachey started; then said, merely:
“Oh!... You!”
“Indeed I have in my own canoe take French leave. That it is funny as the devil and intruding presumption I know full well. But I have thought to be of service and pay my shot if you offer second helping of courtesy and glad hand.”
Brachey nodded. “Come along,” said he.