Routledge rides alone

by Will Levington Comfort

Routledge laughed inwardly, surprised at himself for speaking, and just a little appalled at the grim nerve of the other. In the great glow from his work, he had followed a generous impulse to give Bingley and the Thames a chance that night—on the basis of his meeting a man at Shanhaikwan, with the best horse in the town. In the emancipation of high expression, the sense of rivalry had been lost, and he saw that Bingley was entitled to no little consideration, even if he were beaten by a nose to the cable-door. Routledge went on with his work, his compunctions eased.

At Koupangtze, the half-way station, there was a stop for ten minutes. Bingley improved the time by close conversation with an Englishman on the station platform. Routledge, who remained in his compartment, wondered with animation, as Bingley passed the other a sum of money, if he were arranging with the Englishman to telegraph for a horse to meet him at the train in Shanhaikwan. Could there be two fastest horses at the end of the run?

All that afternoon, as they crossed the brownest, most level and ancient country on earth, two correspondents toiled with words and a battle. At the little town of Shenkau, Routledge heard the name of “Weed” called in a laughable intonation by a Chinese boy on the platform. He reached out and took the telegram. Milner had not allowed a single sentence to suffice. Here is the message:

Oyama entered Liaoyang to-day. Russians in flight to Mukden. Russian rear-guard still fighting. Flanking movement successful. Show ’em pictures.

The gods of war had been good to him, indeed. He ran the telegram entire, at the head of his story. An hour later the Great Wall appeared to his tired eyes. His capacity to express or thrill at a thought was utterly gone. Every film of the battle which his brain had caught, all that he had desired to say, had been re-done in pencil. He folded the sheets and put them away with his credentials and cable-frank. The early twilight was soft and warm. The Great Wall cast a long shadow as the train passed through its single break. The sea was gilded and crimson-touched with the sunset. Shanhaikwan station is but a half-mile from the Wall. Already huts and burial-mounds were passed—dull brown in the dusk.... They were in a free land now; the zone of war and censorship lay behind. It was a dramatic moment.

Each correspondent arose. Each correspondent glanced at the heels of the other and found spurs!

Bingley made his way toward the rear-platform; Routledge took the other. Leaning far out, as the train pulled into the station, Routledge saw Borden and the black stallion—hopped off and ran to him. A China-boy holding the nervous, prick-eared mount stood beside the Combined Press man. Routledge leaped into the saddle. With the tail of his eye he saw Bingley rushing along the platform toward a gray mount.

“They’re looking for you at the cable-office,” Borden yelled. “Don’t burn out the wire!”

Half of Europe and a touch of Asia were represented in the faces on the platform. Meeting the night-train was the chief of the day’s social obligations in Shanhaikwan. To-night everybody was down to get the last fresh word from the field. The crowd sensed distantly that rival correspondents had come in, and that a great newspaper race was on, from the platform to the cable-office.... Spurring across the sandy station-yard, the heart of Routledge lifted to the splendid spirit of the game. He glanced around at the beating hoofs behind. Bingley was straining forward in the saddle, furiously rowelling his gray.... Above the cheering, Routledge heard his name called, and the face of Talliaferro appeared in the crowd, blurred as in a dream. Then came a voice that incited all his senses.... He did not see her. He thought it was in his soul.

“Routledge-san! Win—ride to win!” Then a trailing “Routledge ... san!”