“I left Liaoyang the night of the third. I rode a good horse to death—along the Taitse, over the Hun and the Liao. I rode through the Hun huises twice. I was all cut up and beaten—the horse went over backward in the Hun, and in the gut on the bank of the Liao.... I was in Liaoyang for the battle. I was there four months waiting for the battle. They took my story—hundred thousand words—the Hun huises did, in the fight on the Liao bank. The horse killed herself running with me ... but I’ve got it all in my head—the story. I’ll get to the States with it before any mail—before any other man. It’s all in my head—the whole Russian-end. I can write it again on the ship to the States in three weeks.... I’ve got to get off to-night. You’re the one to help me.... See these——”
Morning opened his shirt and then started to undo his legging.
“For God’s sake—don’t.... But you’ll die on the deck——”
“No, the only way to kill me would be to wall me up—so I couldn’t keep moving.”
“I’ll go down to the river with you in a few minutes.”
And then he had John Morning sobbing on his shoulder.
17
The Englishman at Tongu was a small, sallow man, with the face of one who is used to getting the worst of it. Tongu, as a post, was no exception from an outsider’s point of view. Morning saw this face in [Pg 76]odd lights during the days that followed. It came to the chamber of images—and always he wanted to break down, and his hands went out for the shoulder.... He remembered a pitching junk in the windy blackness at the mouth of the Pei-ho. (He had seen the low mud-flats of the Taku forts from here in another service.)... The Tungsheng looked little—not much bigger than the junk, and she was wooden. There was chill and a slap of rain in the blackness.
“Hul-lo, who is dere?” The slow, juicy voice came from the door of the pilot-house.
“Endicott. I’ve got a deck passenger——”