He had been three years in Shanghai when I saw him. We had spent the morning in the Chinese city, going from shop to shop and our rickshaw boys were hot with sweat; every minute or two they wiped their foreheads with ragged handkerchiefs. We were bound now for the club and had nearly reached it when Henderson remembered that he wanted to get Mr. Bertrand Russell's new book, which had just reached Shanghai. He stopped the boys and told them to go back.
"Don't you think we might leave it till after luncheon?" I said. "Those fellows are sweating like pigs."
"It's good for them," he answered. "You mustn't ever pay attention to the Chinese. You see, we're only here because they fear us. We're the ruling race."
I did not say anything. I did not even smile.
"The Chinese always have had masters and they always will."
A passing car separated us for a moment and when he came once more abreast of me he had put the matter aside.
"You men who live in England don't know what it means to us when new books get out here," he remarked. "I read everything that Bertrand Russell writes. Have you seen the last one?"
"Roads to Freedom? Yes. I read it before I left England."
"I've read several reviews. I think he's got hold of some interesting ideas."
I think Henderson was going to enlarge on them, but the rickshaw boy passed the turning he should have taken.