BANZAI!
As the mountains flattened out, the ragged plains seemed to stretch in
inconceivable distances. Dense uncharted forests blanketed the land. Two
forest fires were raging in this district, about fifty miles apart.
Heavy masses of smoke hung over them, or were torn into shreds and
hurried away by the high wind. Bursts of flames reddened the smoke, and
licked greedily upward.
When Dulcie went to bed, she experienced the ever-recurring thrill to
find herself in a luxurious stateroom, far above the earth. The rarefied
clean air made her body tingle. Dulcie thought shudderingly of her
narrow escape from being left behind.
“It only goes to show,” she told herself, “that occasionally one has to
act.”
The following morning, Wednesday, after breakfast, Doctor Trigg and
Doctor Sims stood gazing at the waste below them. “Endless, arid
plains,” said Dr. Trigg. “Russia—Siberia—the steppes—”
“I wonder just where we are,” said Dulcie, suddenly bobbing up at the
window under Doctor Sims’ arm. He removed the arm.
“I believe we are about seven hundred and fifty miles west of Yakutsk,”
said Mr. Hamilton, speaking from his usual place at the desk.
“Is that a city?” asked Dulcie.
“Yakutsk,” said Doctor Trigg, “is the principal city of the Lena Gold
Fields, and lies over the Stanovoi Range, toward the western end of the
Sea of Okhotsk. In this part of Siberia lie the vast gold fields known
as the Russian Klondike. They produce, with incredible hardship and
labor, over two hundred million rubles annually. A ruble,” he added,
rolling an affectionate and whimsical eye at Dulcie, “is at present
worth—hum—let me think—”
“About fifty cents,” said Mr. Hamilton promptly.
“Yes,” continued Doctor Trigg. “This bleak and terrible country,
stretching on, desolate league after desolate league, has been
unofficially the death chamber of thousands of political and criminal
prisoners every year. Herded together, the lowest and highest, in
horrible proximity, sometimes in chains, the poor wretches are sent here
from civilization to work the mines for a ruthless State, to labor,
suffer, and die. Often the keenest, cleverest intellectual, whose only
crime was a chance word, misstated by some jealous contemporary, is
chain-mate to the vilest wretch crawling. No redress, no pardon. The
poet Shelley pictures Prometheus chained to a rock, the fox gnawing at
his vitals, and Prometheus groans,
‘No rest, no change, no hope;
Yet I endure.’”
“Yes, conditions are said to be pretty bad,” mused Mr. Hamilton. “And
this is called the storehouse of the world.”
“True,” said Doctor Trigg. “The mountains contain not only gold, copper
and iron, but ninety-five per cent of all the platinum in the world. For
you, little Dulcie, and for millions like you, for that delicate chain
on your neck, and that pretty ring.”
“Costly enough,” added Doctor Sims gloomily.
“There are jewels to hang on your platinum chains, too. Stores of
tourmalines, chrysoberyls, and lovely pale aquamarines hide in the
Urals.”
“And the endless trickle of bloodstained gold and gems seeps slowly out,
year after year and generation after generation, to trick and beautify
and amuse the world,” said Doctor Sims. “Gr-r-r-r-r!”
“History repeats itself forever,” said Mr. Hamilton.
“There are other riches, too,” Doctor Trigg went on. “North of us, as I
make out our present position, lie vast deposits of unmined oil. Whole
lakes of it have escaped from the earth, and have spread over acres of
sodden ground.”
“Hmmm,” said Wally. “Something ought to be done about that, if it’s so.”
“It is not officially substantiated,” said Doctor Trigg, “but an old
student of mine, who turned out to be a globe-trotter, told me that he
had actually seen several of those lakes of oil. He said they were a
remarkable sight. He made various tests, and reported that the oil in
Siberia seems practically limitless.”
“Well, we will need that oil some day,” said Mr. Hamilton. “Question is,
what will we have to pay for it?”
“Gr-r-r-r-r,” said Doctor Sims. “Before that time comes, the face of
civilization will have assumed some new grimace, and the question will
answer itself.”
“Well, it’s a perfectly horrid country,” declared Dulcie.
“Yes, yet lonely and savage and remote as it is, it has contrived to
paint a few garish pictures on the page of time. Look at the Gobi
Desert, far south of us. Read of Marco Polo’s journeys there; his
terrific adventures, about the year 1272, when—”
“Marco Polo,” interrupted Doctor Sims. “Why go back to Marco Polo for
interest? Think of our own Roy Chapman Andrews, and what he has
discovered there. Think of those dinosaur eggs! The Peking Man!”
“I read about those,” said Dulcie brightly. “But do you know what we
have done? We have talked and talked all morning. Here comes luncheon.
Oh, Doctor Trigg, you simply know everything!”
“Gar—yah!” said Doctor Sims, cryptically.
Doctor Trigg looked at him over his glasses.
“I should know almost everything, my dear,” he agreed. “You see, I have
been closely associated with Doctor Sims here for forty years, and
having a retentive memory, I have been able to collect and assimilate a
vast amount of information.”
“Chops,” said Doctor Sims to the waiter.
The wind was lessening, and the Moonbeam was steadily picking up speed.
At seven o’clock that evening they passed within thirty miles of
Yakutsk, lying toward the southwest. The evening went gaily. Dulcie
brought out her mandolin, and the youngest reporter confessed to a
guitar. There was singing, too, and Doctor Trigg surprised everyone with
a knowledge of the words of about every college song ever written. He
sang them, too, in a lusty, wabbly old voice, happily oblivious of
Doctor Sims’ “Ha’s,” “Humphs” and “Gr-r-r-r-rs.”
At two the next morning, Thursday, they reached the Port of Ayan, on the
Sea of Okhotsk. They had safely gained the eastern coast of Asia. At
breakfast that morning, Mr. Hammond was elated.
“We have made up all the time we lost in the storm over the Atlantic, in
spite of the winds over the Urals,” he exclaimed. “We will surely make a
lot crossing the Pacific—eight hours, at least, if we have good
weather, and another two crossing the United States will put us in
Lakehurst eight hours ahead of the flying time of the Graf Zeppelin.”
David shook his head.
“I hate to have the chief set his heart on such a record,” he said to
Red, as they later went forward to the control room. “You know we won’t
have that much luck.”
“If we do, it sure will be luck,” said Red, skeptically.
The passengers seemed rather glad to leave the trans-Siberian part of
the flight behind them, although it had been a wonderful experience.
When Dulcie succeeded in cornering her father, she declared that Davie
was growing very thin. She rebuked her parent for the amount of
responsibility he had placed on David’s shoulders. Finally he replied:
“Look here, little gadfly, if you will stop buzzing for a while, I will
explain my methods. This young David Ellison is rather better than the
average, (‘Much,’ said Dulcie.) and he has a good mind; an excellent
mind. (‘A perfectly wonderful mind,’ muttered Dulcie.) He’s a splendid
type of the young American, (‘Um,’ said Dulcie.) and I want to see if he
has the stuff in him that I think he has. If it’s there, Dulcie, I mean
to give him a helping hand.”
“Atta boy, daddy!” cried Dulcie. “He has got brains. Has he said
anything to you about the invention he is working on?”
“Not a word; what is it?”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know about it, and I’m not to breathe a word
even to you, but it is something about something to fasten on the
engines that will make them do something or other a great deal better
than they are doing it now, and all that. It is marvelously important,
and I’m not to mention it to a soul.”
“I wouldn’t. Some unscrupulous person, hearing you talk about it, might
jot the whole thing down and get a patent on it. In the meantime, to go
back, I won’t be able to find out what stuff he’s made of unless I work
him like the devil. So keep your finger out of this pie, Miss Hammond.
The young man is not your type, anyhow.”
“What is my type, then?” asked Dulcie, curiously.
“Well, there’s Cram.”
“Daddy,” cried Dulcie, stamping, “I can’t bear the sight of him!”
“Can’t bear—well, what were you doing the other night when I came in to
the salon, and found you at that corner table, holding his hand, and
Cram smirking and blinking at you like a hound pup?”
Dulcie giggled. “I was reading his palm. I told him he would have a very
distinguished career, and would probably fill some high public office. I
said I thought he would be an ambassador.”
“Ambassador, my eye!” he growled. “What do you do it for, anyway,
Dulcie, smearing it on like that?”
“They expect it. If you don’t kid ’em along they don’t know how to talk
at all.”
“Well, we will hope for the best,” said Mr. Hammond, and added, as he
left her, “Go vamp Doctor Sims. If you can get one real compliment out
of him before we reach Ayre, I’ll buy you a new roadster.”
“Darling!” cried Dulcie, making a dash for her parent. But he shut the
door hastily, and was gone.
Mr. Hammond went to the chart room, studied the maps, then joined David
in the control room.
“Well, it won’t be long now, before we are over Japan,” he remarked. “We
will probably spend two days there at the airport, for a good
overhauling.”
“There are some recent radiograms in that clip, commander. I see that
they are planning a regular blow-out for us.”
Mr. Hammond commenced looking over the pile of radiograms which David
had indicated.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “They have arranged for six expert engineers
to meet us and take care of the ship. Two Americans, two Germans, and
two Japanese. That is certainly doing things up right. And there is a
ground crew of five hundred Japanese sailors, specially trained. Just
what they did for the Graf Zeppelin. They want to know just when to
expect us. Here are advance greetings from all their princes, highest
ranking army and navy officers, and state officials.” He sighed. “Well,
captain, it does look like a big reception.”
There was a thrill of excitement on the ship. Everyone was conscious of
it. After the days spent crossing Siberia, the thought of disembarkation
in beautiful, alluring Japan was delightful. The reporters clicked their
little portables in a chorus which sounded like hail. There was much
joking and laughter. Doctor Trigg practiced sentences out of a
Japanese-English phrase book. Doctor Sims, who had once been in Tokio,
knew of an obscure little burial-place that he meant to visit.
At three-thirty o’clock, on Thursday afternoon, they passed over
Mororan, on the island of Kokkaiddo, Japan. They were now only five
hundred and fifty miles from Tokio.
While the Moonbeam sped toward the city, her five engines roaring out
their rhythmic chorus, there was bustle and excitement in Tokio. Another
great ship, larger by far than the Graf Zeppelin, was to be the guest of
Japan. The city was in gala dress. From the highest official, dignified
and unapproachable, down to the tiniest little Geisha girl, chattering
behind her fan, the population of Tokio united in a charming spirit of
welcome. Every hotel in the city was crowded with tourists, come to see
the ship. The veteran Commander of Communications, with Mr. Hammond’s
message of acceptance of the entertainments planned by the city
officers, proceeded with his elaborate arrangements. Special trains
waited at the Tokio station to transport the two thousand invited guests
to the naval landing field at Kasumigaura, about forty miles northwest
of the city, where an arm of the Pacific forms placid lagoons.
Every hour special weather reports were wirelessed to the ship, while
six seaplanes were ordered to meet her at sea and escort her in. The
great hangar had been cleared for the reception of the visitor, the
Japanese ships being transferred to another location.
Kasumigaura was not housing an American ship for the first time. It had
been used on a previous successful round-the-world flight of three army
planes in 1924, but the American aviators had flown in the opposite
direction, with a more southerly general course.
All Thursday morning a distinguished group of Japanese watched the five
hundred bluejackets who comprised the special ground crew as they
rehearsed for their coming task. There was the admiral, the minister of
the navy, the vice admiral, and, besides, two princes of the reigning
house. The ground crew used the largest of the Japanese dirigibles for
their maneuvers.
The weather was hot, but beautiful and clear. All nature seemed in
league to show Japan at its loveliest. At Tokio, as the morning passed,
thousands of tireless eyes searched the sky for the first sight of their
splendid visitor. Afternoon came, and dragged by, and still the masses
of people watched and listened for the siren which was to sound the
tidings of her arrival. Newsboys swarmed everywhere, with extras
containing the latest reports of the ship’s location.
Evening came. Nine o’clock; fifteen minutes past; and then—three long
blasts from the city’s sirens sent men, women and children rushing for
vantage points. Traffic came spontaneously to an end.
She had come; the silver ship, the Moonbeam! Her engines roaring, her
silver gray sides gleaming in the searchlights, she appeared suddenly as
she dropped through a floor of mist, and hung so low over the city that
it was easy to see the passengers crowded at the windows of the cabin.
The usual calm of the Japanese disappeared, and wild shouts of
“_Banzai!_” rent the air. Handkerchiefs waved madly.
The Moonbeam hung low over the city, as though waiting to receive the
homage due her. Then graciously she circled, and crossing the center of
the city, sailed across to Yokohama, where she saluted the outgoing
steamers which were awaiting her there.
Then she turned in the direction of Kasumigaura. Reaching the port, she
made a wide circle, her attendant seaplanes following, then descended.
The ground crew rushed to their places, and with perfect precision the
Moonbeam was drawn down and secured.
The crowd, composed of many nationalities, became wildly excited. The
noise continued while the passengers disembarked. Mr. Hammond and David
were immediately surrounded by a group of bemedalled and gold-laced
officials. Their luggage was put in cars which were to take them to
Tokio, where rooms were reserved for all the passengers and officers at
the Imperial Hotel. Dulcie clung close to Doctor Trigg, with Red Ryan as
a bulwark on the other side, and Cram close in the rear. Soldiers and
policemen tried to hold back the masses of people who seemed to gather
in increasing numbers. Repeatedly the laughing, chattering mobs broke
through the cordons, only to be pressed back.
A large automobile swept up to Dulcie and her escorts, and a Japanese
officer motioned that they were to enter. When they were comfortably
seated, and the door shut, the smiling Oriental bowed and the car rolled
smoothly away in the direction of Tokio.
The great yellow moon came lazily out of the sea, and lanterns twinkled
merrily as they sped along.
“Well, Lafayette, here we are!” said Dulcie, leaning back on the
luxurious cushions. “This is certainly a dandy car. Red, I feel a grand
good time coming on.”
“You betcha, Miss Hammond!”
“I don’t like these Japs,” said Wally, turning around on the front seat,
where he sat beside the chauffeur. “They are two-faced, and
undependable. Wouldn’t trust one an inch.”
“Keep still!” Dulcie cried imperiously. “That man may speak English.
Anyway, I don’t believe one word of it.”
Wally subsided into sulky silence. The little man at the wheel did not
flicker an eyelid. Dulcie decided that he had not understood.
“Did you notice the charming little incident back there when our friend
closed the door?” asked Doctor Trigg delightedly. “Knowledge is indeed
power!” He tapped the little Japanese-English phrase book in his hand.
“I had the pleasure of speaking to the young man in his native tongue. I
wish you had noticed the surprise and interest depicted on his
countenance. He seemed scarcely able to believe his ears. I am rather an
old man to attempt the mastery of a new tongue.”
“What did you say, doctor?” asked Dulcie.
He stared uncertainly at the little book.
“I would refresh my memory, but the light is so bad. Can you read it? It
is the first line on the left-hand page.”
Dulcie snapped on the dome light, and looked. She could well imagine the
amazement of the young Japanese!
“You have stolen the rice of my honorable father,” was the translation
beneath the phonetic pronunciation. She closed the book hastily.
“I think you are just too smart for words, doctor,” she said.