Horse-racing is the favorite sport in Hong Kong, and the track at Happy Valley is the Epsom Downs of the Far East. A Derby is a signal for the suspension of business, and the excitement in the paddock, grand stand, and along the rail is akin to that at Sheepshead Bay on the day of the Brooklyn handicap.
The Chinese are born gamblers, whether playing at “fan tan” or picking the winners on the track. They will carry complete data of a horse: the distance he can go at his best; the weight he can best carry; whether fast or slow in starting; and whether a good or bad animal in mud; all this a Chinaman will study over before placing his money, and it is usually safe to follow his system.
Hong Kong, like all other cities of the earth, has its underworld. These labyrinthal subways, where flourish the opium dens, are as thickly infested with thugs as are the darkest recesses of Mulberry Bend.
Having accompanied a party of Highlanders and Welsh Fusileers into these dimly lighted caverns, for the purpose of seeing opium smoked, we fell upon sights which seemed degrading even to a party of slumming soldiers; here and there in deep recess were cots on which reclined the sleeping forms of seminude victims of the yenhock. Further on, an American girl in a kimono approached me with the query as to what part of the United States I was from. Her flushed face indicated that she was under the influence of “samshu,” a popular native intoxicant. She told me how eager she was to get back to her native land, but how impossible it seemed to raise the price of the transportation. Her home she said was in St. Louis, that she had accompanied a theatrical troupe from San Francisco to Australia, which had stranded and disbanded in Sydney; from Australia she had accompanied a troupe through the Straits Settlements, and finally arrived in Hong Kong, only to fall a victim to the plague, from which she recovered, and finally drifted penniless into the abode of the denizens of
the underworld. Her story was a sad one, but you meet the same class and hear similar stories in all cities of the world. As we bade her adieu and passed on through this “chamber of horrors,” we could hear her voice, singing, “Give me just one little smile; every little bit helps.”
There were some ugly-looking heathens in this underground bee-hive, and, before leaving, we played at “fan tan,” having considerable luck, which seemed to irritate an almond-eyed highbinder to such an extent that he broke up the game. This caused a Highlander to hand him a jolt on the eye, and this started a “rough house,” in which I was compelled to declare peace along the barrel of my Colt automatic; it looked like work for a coroner, but Chinese are afraid of a gun, and the resumption of order was momentary.
Having visited every nook and cranny of this quaint city during my ten days’ shore leave, I returned to the arduous duties about the deck of a “man-of-war.”
The Rainbow had changed her position from the anchorage ground in the bay to a
dry dock in Kowloon opposite the City of Hong Kong; here she was undergoing a process of renovation.
On board a “man-of-war” the hours for performing duty are divided into three watches, each watch commencing at eight bells. At eight o’clock commences what is known as the first watch, this watch is relieved at twelve o’clock by the mid watch, and this is relieved at four o’clock by the dog watch, the night watches being regulated the same as the day.