“Ever find out why Mayhew is in the islands?” asked Angier idly. “Secretive cuss! Acts like a Secret Service bird—prowling around unlikely places, such as this joint in which he arranged to meet us to-night.”
“Job brought him. That’s straight enough. But I see what you mean. He does seem to be looking for something outside the job. Now, as to that bet——”
Seriously they arranged the terms of the wager. In the byways of the world, trifles are serious when big things are not happening.
“Two to one——”
It was young Angier who plunged the deepest. He was at the age when a man is sure that he knows the woman game.
“It will be the same old tale,” he said. “Men! One man; then two men; then a few more—and the streets.”
It rained—as if a gigantic bucket of water were being emptied from the clouds that lowered over the city.
Manila, like all ladies, has moods; and when she weeps it means trouble. Her rainy mood is sinister—reminiscent of untold horrors. The Moat, evil in even its modernized form, seems, when bespattered by the raindrops that turn oily as they strike, to be hiding dark secrets of a past age. Over the wet and slippery Bridge of Spain many men have gone to their ruin; through the Puerta Isabella Dos many women have reached the bottom. Manila blinks through the downpour, knowing full well that men are strong, and men are weak, but no man can be both. And well does Manila know that few women in her clutches have achieved the first.
The tin roof reverberated under the bombardment of the rain. The wind hit the building, which vibrated. A breath of damp, cool air blew in to the crowded dance hall. The dancers paused, for an instant taken aback by the fury of the storm. They felt the insecurity of the human being in the face of the elements. The clamour of the trap drum was unaccompanied by the sliding sound of feet; even the feet faltered. The wind died down as suddenly as it had arisen. The music of the Filipino jazz band broke forth with renewed vigour. The dancers again set out upon the vast floor, moving along in the fox trot as interpreted by the two hemispheres.
At a table near the dancing floor sat the two officers who had made the bet. They waited for their white uniforms to dry out from the storm that had caught them unprepared. Amusement showed in their sunburnt faces as they watched the many odd variations of the great American dance. The dancers circled past their table, the mestizos throwing out their feet with waving motions inherited from the Spanish habanera, the full-blood natives flopping carelessly along in heelless chinelas which necessitated exaggerated glides, the Chinamen shuffling. Dancing with these assorted breeds were girls as unmistakably Caucasian as their partners were Oriental. These girls clung precariously to the loose sleeves of the Chinaman, the unconfined shirt tails of the Filipino, the starched coat of the mestizo. The painted faces looked up at the yellow, brown, and bistre skins of their partners. White teeth gleamed from the men’s open mouths; gold fillings flashed between the dangerously smiling lips of the girls.