China -- History -- Revolution, 1911-1912 -- Fiction; Love stories; River boats -- Fiction; Yangtze River (China) -- Fiction
She could not take her eyes, during a long period, from the hideous
object on the pole. Her over-stimulated thoughts were reaching quickly,
sharply, far in every direction. The feeling came, grew into belief,
that she was, mysteriously, out of her danger. She felt the ropes of
pearls under her blouse with an ecstatic little catch of the breath; and
(finally) letting her eyes drop to that other ugly object on the steps
beneath her, slowly opened her bag, drew out the bracelet watch (that
the Manila Kid had given her out of an absurd hope) and fastened it
about her wrist. And her eyes were bright with triumph.
CHAPTER X--YOUTH
|THERE came for his excellency, as the sun mounted the sky, a large
junk of his own river fleet--great brown sails flapping against the five
masts of all heights that pointed up at crazily various angles, pennons
flying at each masthead, hull weathered darkly, mats and fenders of
woven hemp hung over the poop-rail, and a swarming pigtailed crew at the
sweeps and overside on the spunson and hard at the tracking ropes as
the _tai-kung_ screamed from the bow and the _laopan_ shouted from the
poop.
They were ferried aboard in the small boat, Kang with his daughters and
his suite and servants, a handful of pitifully wailing women, young Kane
and Griggsby Doane. Then the trackers cast off from the shore and
the mooring poles, the sweeps moved, and with the _lao pan_ musically
calling the stroke the junk moved laboriously up-stream toward the home
of his excellency's ancestors.
Crowded into the uninviting cabins the weary travelers sought a few
hours of rest. Even the servants and the mourning women, under the
mattings forward, fell swiftly asleep. Only Rocky Kane, his eyes staring
widely out of a sensitively white face, walked the deck; until
the thought--a new sort of thought in the life of this headstrong
youth--that he would be disturbing those below drove him aft, out beyond
the steersman to the over-hanging gallery. Here he sat on the bamboo
rail and gazed moodily down at the tireless, mighty river flowing off
astern.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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