China -- History -- Revolution, 1911-1912 -- Fiction; Love stories; River boats -- Fiction; Yangtze River (China) -- Fiction
The little Manchu girl had found a friend in Mr. Rocky Kane. He was
holding her on the rail and supplying her with brass cash which she
dropped gaily into the baskets. The eunuch stood smiling by. After
tiffin the child appeared again and sought her new friend. She would sit
on his knee and pry open his mouth to see where the strange sounds came
from. And his cigarettes delighted her.
It was the Manila Kid himself who asked Miss Means and Miss Andrews
if they would mind a bit of a boxing: match in the social hall. They
promptly withdrew to their cabin, after Miss Means had uttered a
bewildered but dignified: “Not in the least! Don't think of us!”
Shortly after dinner the cabin stewards stretched a rope around four
pillars, just forward of the dining table. The men lighted cigarettes
and cigars, and moved up with quickening interest. Tex Connor, who had
disappeared directly after the coffee, brought in his budding champion,
a large grinning yellow man in a bathrobe. The second mate, and two of
the engineers found seats about the improvised rings. Then an outer door
opened, and the great mandarin appeared, bowing and smiling courteously
with hands clasped before his breast. The fifteen lesser mandarins
followed, all rich color and rustling silk.
The young officers sprang to their feel and arranged chairs for
the party. The great man seated himself, and his attendants grouped
themselves behind him.
Into this expectant atmosphere came the mate, in knickerbockers and a
sweater, stooping under the lintel of the door, then straightening
up and stopping short. His eyes quickly took in the crowded little
picture--the gray-bearded mandarin in the ringside chair, backed with
a mass of Oriental color; that other personage, Dawley Kane, directly
opposite, with the aquiline nose, the guardedly keen eyes and the quite
humorless face, as truly a mandarin among the whites as was calm old
Kang among the yellows; the flushed eager face of Rocky Kane; the other
whites, all smoking, all watching him sharply, all impatient for the
show. He frowned; then, as the mandarin smiled, came gravely forward,
bent under the rope and addressed him briefly in Chinese.
The mandarin, frankly pleased at hearing his own tongue, rose to reply.
Each clasped his own hands and bowed low, with the observance of a
long-hardened etiquette so dear to the Oriental heart.
“How about a little bet?” whispered Rocky Kane to Tex Connor. “I
wouldn't mind taking the big fellow.”
“What odds'll you give?” replied the impassive one.
“Odds nothing! Your man's a trained fighter, and he must be twenty years
younger.”
“But this man Doane's an old athlete. He's boxed, off and on, all his
life. And he's kept in condition. Look at his weight, and his reach.”
“What's the distance?”
“Oh--six two-minute rounds.”
“Who'll referee?”
“Well--one of the Englishmen.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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