WORSE AND WORSE
The hot day burned on towards its hottest, and the troubles at
the Gregory Steamship Company boiled and bubbled like a veritable
hell-broth.
At eleven a coolie was caught smuggling paraffin, disguised as a chest
of tea, on to the _Fee Chow_. Not a word could be got out of
him as to what or who had instigated him; neither threats nor bribes
would make him speak, and indeed Holman had little time or nerve to
spare to try the application of either coaxing or kicking. He knew
that he needed all he had of both to save what was undoubtedly the
ugliest situation he had ever faced. The tide _must_ be caught at
Shanghai: it was vital. And yet the ship must be searched, every inch
of her--and the crew. That was even more imperative. One tin of the
deadly, dangerous stuff had been detected going aboard--a dozen might
be aboard undetected, hidden among the cargo.
It was terribly exasperating; but now that things were at their worst
Holman faced them coolly enough, a resolute, resourceful man--strong,
crisp and vigorous still after twenty years of seething Hong Kong
business life. For several of those years he had, until Robert
Gregory’s arrival, managed the firm’s affairs efficiently. He looked
capable of doing so still for quite a number of years.
He gripped the situation hard, and dealt with it briskly, and Tom
Carruthers looked on fuming, and Simpson and the other half-dozen
European subordinate old hands obeyed him with confident alacrity.
Carruthers would have “wrung every dirty yellow neck,” “kicked them
to blazes,” “boiled them in their own paraffin”; but Simpson and the
English others thought that old Holman would win through somehow--if
he couldn’t, no one could--and they were serenely confident that every
troubling coolie there would get his drastic deserts to the full--when
Holman thought wise and had time, but not before.
But just once Holman forgot himself. When the searching was over (sure
enough one tin had been successfully smuggled on and hidden) and the
reloading half done, the coolies struck again. And the over-tired
manager felt with Tom that that was too much.
Tom was nearly maudlin with rage by now, and when, in reply to Holman’s
angry, “The men never behaved so like hell before. What the thunder
does it mean?” the compradore had said oilily, “Me no savee--no catchee
more money--no can do work,” Holman lost grip on himself and blurted
out thunderously, “They work damn well for Wu Li Chang, don’t they?”
and regretted it as soon as he had said it.
Murder flashed through the compradore’s eyes for an infinitesimal
instant, and a venomous hiss snarled through his teeth. Holman had
heard and seen a rabid dog snarl so once. But the Chinese commanded
himself again instantly, and said meekly, almost sweetly: “Me no savee.
Wantee more money, lelse no can do work.”
Holman commanded himself as quickly and as well as the native had,
and said, speaking as calmly (and almost as slowly), “Get that ship
loaded--three days’ pay--understand?”
“Savee. Can do.”
But Tom Carruthers collapsed upon the window-seat. “If this was lording
it over the poor, over-worked, underpaid natives, all he could say
was----”
But the bitter and brilliant remark was never made, for as the
compradore padded softly out, Murray, a senior clerk and the
book-keeper, rushed in excitedly. And European clerks do not rush
about much between noon and three in Hong Kong, not even indoors with
drenched tatties at the windows and punkahs well manned. There were no
tatties in this room--its occupants too often desired to keep an eye on
the wharf.
“Out, John,” the book-keeper ripped at a Chinese clerk who had come in
while Holman was speaking to the compradore, mounted his high stool,
and began to write busily. At Murray’s order he slid off the stool,
closed his book, and went out impassively.
Scarcely waiting until the door had closed, Murray said anxiously,
“But, Mr. Holman, I understood you to say that the overdraft for the
new dock had been arranged with the Bank--I drew up the exchange
accordingly----”
“Quite correct--the transfer is to be made to-day.” But Holman’s voice
was less sanguine than his words. He scented more trouble still, and he
eyed askance the letter in Murray’s hand.
“There must be some mistake, sir,” Murray said desperately. “The Bank
has just notified our accountancy department that an overdraft is
impossible.”
“Why?”
“They write that our security is insufficient and further we must
vacate these premises immediately.”
“What?” Carruthers sprang up as if some inimical concussion had
impelled him.
“The landlord having disposed of the property,” Murray continued.
And he perched himself dejectedly on one of the Chinese clerks’ high
stools, as if the accumulated strain of a few morning hours had
unnerved his sturdy legs.
“What about the Company’s lease?” Tom persisted miserably.
“Expired in March,” Holman said doggedly. “We’re here on monthly
arrangement--I supposed you knew that; every one else does--we expected
to move to the new buildings at our own docks. The very roof taken from
our own heads!” he concluded bitterly, dropping down heavily into his
chair.
Tom looked at him ruefully for a moment, and then went up to Murray. “I
say, how much do we need? That’ll be all right. I’ll cable over to my
father----”
“I’m afraid it’s no use, sir,” the book-keeper said regretfully. “You
see, it’s this way: the Wang Hi Company refuse to go on with the
negotiations; all their principal shareholders are natives, and these
threaten to withdraw their capital if any business whatsoever is done
with us.”
Tom Carruthers gave a long, sharp whistle.
Holman looked up. “Precisely,” he said dryly.
“But--but--something’s got to be done. We can’t sit here and see
the ship go down--I’m blowed if we can. And I’m damned if I will.
Something’s got to be done. But I say, you two, what shall it be? What?”
He spoke to them, but he had picked up Hilda’s photograph, and was
looking not at them but at it.
They paid his question as little heed as the photograph did in its
frame. They had no answer to give him. And he got none--unless he
could piece one out from the hubbub that bubbled up from the sweating,
teeming wharf, from the screaming, pushing coolie women in the
sampans, from the pandemonium of noises and of smells that seethed up
from a hundred junks, and from the mighty conglomerate waterside life
and boat life that is the Greater Hong Kong. For there are two Hong
Kongs--one old and shabby and battered, one smiling and well kept; and
the smiling city on the hill-sides is Hong Kong the Little.