“No mail-boat until Monday next, sir. I think——”
“I said a passenger steamer.”
“There’s the Ah-Foo, Chinese owned, but under British officers. She’s leaving Hong Kong to-morrow.”
“That’ll do. Make out the necessary warrant,” decided the commander, and he proceeded to his cabin, there to write instructions in the order book for Midshipman Raxworthy’s temporary transference to H.M. Gunboat Sandgrub.
“Something that’ll interest you, Rax!” exclaimed Morton, the sub of the gun-room. “Catch!”
He tossed the order book across to Raxworthy, who caught the book dexterously, though without enthusiasm. The commander’s order book usually contained—when it mentioned him at all—some unpleasant reference to something also unpleasant that the midshipman was called upon to perform.
But soon Raxworthy’s eyes sparkled.
“Crickey!” he ejaculated. “This is a slice of luck!”
“What’s up, old son?” inquired Timpson. “Has the Bloke given you a double dose of duty steam-boat ‘cause you carved off a chunk of the accommodation ladder when you brought him alongside yesterday?”
“No,” replied Raxworthy. “I’m lent to Sandgrub. Up the Yang-tse!”
“Lucky dog!” commented Timpson. “Only, take my tip: don’t try mixed bathing in the Yang-tse. ‘Tisn’t like the Mediterranean. One mouthful and you won’t want another.”
“Initial the blessed thing, and don’t waste time kagging,” announced the sub, who wasn’t too pleased over the business. One midshipman short meant not only additional duties for those who remained, but increased work for him. “And don’t leave any of your gear knocking about. I don’t want the job of sending it after you. Anyway, what’s the bright idea of sending a snottie to a gunboat? I’ve never heard of it being done.”
It did not take Raxworthy long to make his preparations. Life in the Royal Navy teaches a man to be sharp off the mark even at short notice.
His sea chest was soon packed. It contained, amongst other articles, that ornamental but useless weapon, his dirk, and something that was not ornamental but certainly business like—his service revolver. Then, of course, he had to take his sextant. He wondered whether he would be called upon to “take sights” when miles up the Yang-tse. He hoped not. He didn’t shine at mathematics and “working out his sights” was a task he detested. That fact had been the cause of several of the many unpleasant “incidents” between him and the Bloke, although he guessed shrewdly that the commander at his mature time of life wouldn’t know how to use a sextant with any degree of accuracy.
At nine next morning Raxworthy, wearing plain clothes, boarded the S.S. Ah-Foo.
A Chinese steward, stealthy in movement and with almost expressionless features, showed him to his cabin.
“Velly nicee cabin. Me help navee officer unstow?”
“Thanks, no; I’ll do my own unpacking,” replied Raxworthy, and wondered how the Chinaman knew he was R.N.
It was a single berth cabin, with two large scuttles and a jalousied door. Above the bunk was an electric fan. Close to it was a switch controlling the electric light. The cabin was enamelled white, but showed considerable signs of iron mould in spite of the cork cement casing the deck-head beams.
The steward, bowing, backed out of the cabin. Raxworthy unlocked his chest, removed those articles he required for immediate use, and then re-locked it.
About a quarter of an hour later he went on deck.
The Ah-Foo was already under way.
From the boat-deck the midshipman looked down upon the well-deck, which was crowded with Chinese of the working-class. Men, women and children, most of them sitting upon bundles that contained the whole of their worldly goods, seemed to have “pegged out their claims” as if they intended remaining there for the duration of the voyage. Everyone, according to custom that had arisen from necessity, had been searched for hidden arms.
The third officer, elderly and rigged out in none-too-smart tropical uniform, came up and stood by Raxworthy’s side.
“Pretty measly crowd, aren’t they?” he remarked. “Thank goodness we aren’t carrying them far. We’re getting shut of most of them at Swatow.”
“Swatow! I thought the Ah-Foo was bound for Shanghai direct?”
“Never in your life, Mr. Raxworthy. This is an intermediate boat, and well I know it! Swatow, Amoy, Foochow, Wen Chow, Hangchow, Shanghai; like a porter yelling out the names of stations on the old North-Eastern. By smoke! What wouldn’t I give to be in Liverpool Street station now instead of in this old hooker.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated the midshipman aghast. “How long does it take her to make Shanghai?”
“Depends,” replied the third officer guardedly. “Depends on what cargo’s offering. Say a week, and you’ll not be far wrong. But she’s a fairly comfortable ship and you won’t be crowded. You’re the only first-class passenger.”
That was little consolation. Here he was, under orders to report on board Sandgrub with the least possible delay, with the prospect of kicking his heels for a week, perhaps ten days. Once these “intermediates” go into port there’s no knowing when they will leave.
Then, reflecting, he remembered that it was through no fault of his that he had been booked for a passage in the Ah-Foo. Probably the commander would think so and not forget to mention it when, at some future date, he rejoined his ship. Meanwhile he must make the best of things and trust to luck that Sandgrub hadn’t gone up the Yang-tse before he arrived at Shanghai.
He hoped she wouldn’t. He was looking forward to the experience tremendously. It was a most unusual procedure to send a midshipman for service in a river gunboat. What was the idea? He couldn’t think. Neither the Owner nor the Bloke had hinted about the nature of his duties. It might be that the Sandgrub was on special service—a chance of smelling powder, perhaps—and if that were so he would be an object of envy to his messmates who remained in the light cruiser.
Raxworthy remained on the boat-deck until the island of Hong Kong dipped behind the horizon and the rugged China coast showed up through the heat haze broad on the port beam.
About two miles off a large junk was on a course diagonal to the shore. Although she was at present dead ahead, she would draw clear long before the Ah-Foo cut her track.
The midshipman gave the junk a casual glance. Since he arrived on the China Station he had seen too many craft of this type to show any interest in her.
A Chinese steward announced that tiffin was ready. Raxworthy, having a healthy appetite, was reciprocally ready. He went down to his cabin, washed, brushed his hair, and then made his way to the saloon.
He was, as the third officer had remarked, the only first-class passenger. His seat at the table was therefore on the captain’s right. The ship’s officers present at the meal were the second officer, the purser and the doctor.
The repast started well. The soup was excellent, the fish, cunningly garnished by native cooks, was most appetising. Conversation, however, was desultory and by no means general. The doctor and the purser were discussing some matter that was completely outside their respective departments. The second exchanged a few words with the Old Man and then devoted his attention to his plate; while the captain, having passed a few commonplace remarks to Raxworthy, seemed to be lost in thought. Occasionally he would turn his head to one side and gaze up at the open skylight, like a terrier hearing strange noises. The Chinese servants, standing motionless yet keenly responsive to any sign on the part of the people at table, gazed woodenly at the opposite bulkhead.