"Awful--isn't it?" murmured Ajax. "Do you remember those loathsome
dens in Chinatown? And the creatures on the mats, and in the bunks!
And that missionary chap, who said how hard it was to reclaim them.
Poor Babe!"
Then we filled our pipes and smoked them slowly. We had plenty to
think about, for rescuing an opium-fiend is no easy job, and
reclaiming him afterwards is as hard again. But The Babe's blue eyes
and his pink skin--what did they look like now?--were pleading on his
behalf, and we remembered that he had played in his school eleven, and
could run a quarter-mile in fifty-eight seconds, and was always cheery
and good-tempered. The woods of the Colonies and the West are full of
such Babes; and they all like to play with edged tools.
Next day we both went north. Ajax said that two heads were better than
one, and that it was not wise to trust oneself alone in the stews of
San Francisco. The police will not tell you how many white men are
annually lost in those festering alleys that lie north of Kearney
Street, but if you are interested in such matters, I can refer you to
a certain grim-faced guide, who has spent nearly twenty years in
Chinatown, and you can implicitly believe one quarter of what he says:
that quarter will strain your credulity not a little.
We walked to the address given in the letter--a low dive--not a
stone's-throw from one of the biggest hotels west of the Rocky
Mountains. The man behind the bar said that he knew The Babe well,
that he was a perfect gentleman, and a personal friend of his. The
fellow's glassy eyes and his grey-green skin told their own story. A
more villainous or crafty-looking scoundrel it has been my good
fortune not to see.
"Where is your friend?" said Ajax.
The man behind the bar protested ignorance. Then my brother laid a
five-dollar gold piece upon the country, and repeated the question.
The man's yellow fingers began to tremble. Gold to him was opium, and
opium held all his world and the glory thereof.
"I can't take you to him--now," he muttered sullenly.
"You can," replied Ajax, "and you must."
The man glared at us. Doubtless he guessed the nature of our errand,
and wished to protect his friend from the interference of Philistines,
Then he smiled evilly, and laughed.
"All right; come on. I ain't goin' to take yer to the Palace Hotel."
He opened the till and slipped some money into his pocket. Then he put
on a ragged overcoat, and a hat which he drew down over his eyes with
a furtive jerk of his yellow fingers. Then he went behind the bar and
swallowed something; it was not whisky, but it brought a faint tinge
of colour into his cheek, and seemed to stiffen his knees.
"Shall we walk, boys, or shall I send for my carriage?"
"Your carriage," repeated Ajax. "Are you speaking of the patrol-
waggon? It is just round the corner."
This allusion to the police was not wasted upon The Babe's friend, who
scowled and retorted glibly--
"There's better men than you, mister, who ride in that."
After this exchange of pleasantries we took the road, and followed our
guide across a great thorough-fare and into Kearney Street. Thence
into the labyrinth of Chinatown.
"Think ye could find yer way out of this?" asked our guide presently.
We had passed through an abominable rookery, and were walking down a
narrow alley, seemingly deserted. Yet I was sensible that eyes were
furtively watching us from behind barred windows, and I fancied that I
heard whispers--mere guttural sounds, that conveyed nothing to the
ear, save, perhaps, a warning that we were on unholy ground. The path
we trod was foul with refuse; the stench was sickening; the most
forlorn cur would surely have slunk from such a kennel; and here,
_here_, to this lazar-house of all that was unclean and infamous,
came of his own free-will--The Babe!
"My God!" exclaimed Ajax, in reply. "How can any man find his way
_into_ it? And, hark ye, my friend, for reasons that we won't
trouble you with, we have not asked the police to accompany us, but if
we are not back at our hotel in two hours' time, the clerk has
instructions to send a constable to your saloon."
"Here we air," said our guide. "Duck yer heads."
We stooped beneath a low arch, and entered a dark passage. At the end
was a rickety staircase; and already we could smell the pungent fumes
of the opium, and taste its bitterness. As I groped my way down the
stairs I was conscious of an uncanny silence, a silence eloquent of a
sleep that is as death, a sleep that always ends in death. It was easy
to conceive death as a hideous personality lurking at the bottom of
those rotten stairs, waiting patiently for his victims; not
constrained to go abroad for them, knowing that they were creeping to
him, creeping and crawling, unassoiled by priest, hindered by no
physician, unredeemed by love, deaf, and blind, and dumb!
* * * * *
At the foot of the stairs was another passage, darker and filthier
than the one above; the walls were streaming with moisture, and the
atmosphere almost unendurable. At that time the traffic in opium was
receiving the serious attention of the authorities. Certain scandalous
cases of bribery at the Custom House had stirred the public mind, and
the police were instructed to raid all opium dens, and arrest
whomsoever might be found in them. The devotees of the "pipe" were
accordingly compelled to lie snug in places without the pale of police
supervision: and this awful den was one of them.
It was now so dark that I could barely distinguish the outlines of our
guide, who walked ahead of me. Suddenly he stopped and asked me if I
had any matches. I handed him my box, which he dropped, and the
matches were scattered about in the mud at our feet. He gave me back
my box, and asked Ajax for his matches. I dare say older and wiser men
would have apprehended mischief, but we were still in our salad days.
Ajax gave up his box without a protest; the man struck a match, after
some fumbling lit a piece of candle, and returned to my brother his
box. It was empty--for he had cleverly transferred the matches to his
own pocket--but we did not know that then. By the light of the candle
I was able to take stock of my surroundings. We were facing a stout
door: a door that without doubt had been constructed for purposes of
defence, and upon the centre of this our guide tapped softly--three
times. It opened at once, revealing the big body of a Celestial,
evidently the Cerberus of the establishment. Upon his fat impassive
face lay the seal of an unctuous secrecy, nothing more. Out of his
obliquely-set eyes he regarded us indifferently, but he nodded to our
guide, who returned the salutation with a sly laugh. For some
inexplicable reason that laugh fired my suspicions. It was--so to
speak--an open sesame to a chamber of horrors, the more horrible
because intangible and indescribable. Ajax said afterwards that he was
similarly affected. The contagion of fear is a very remarkable thing,
and one little understood by the physiologists. I remember I put my
hand into my pocket, because it began to tremble, and I was ashamed of
it. And then, as I still stared at the fat Chinaman, his smooth mask
seemed to drop from his face, and treachery, cunning, greed, hatred of
the "white devil" were revealed to me.
I was now convinced we had come on a fool's errand that was like to
end evilly for us, but, being a fool, I held my peace and said nothing
to Ajax, who confessed later that if I had spoken he would have
seconded a motion to retreat. We advanced, sensible that we were being
trapped: a psychological fact not without interest.
Opposite the door through which we had just passed was another door as
stout as the first. The Chinaman unlocked this with a small key, and
allowed us to enter, the guide with the candle leading the way. And
then, in a jiffy, before we had time to glance round us, the candle
was extinguished; the door was closed; we heard the click of a patent
lock; and we knew that we were alone and in darkness.
The first thing that Ajax said, and his voice was not pleasant to
hear, was: "This serves us right. Of all the confounded fools who
meddle with what does not concern them, we are the greatest."
Then I heard him fumbling for his matchbox, and then, when he
discovered that it was empty, he made some more remarks not flattering
to himself or me. I was more frightened than angry; with him rage and
disgust were paramount.
We stood there in that squalid darkness for about a hundred years (it
was really ten minutes), and then the voice of our guide seemed to
float to us, as if from an immeasurable distance.
"Boys," he said. "How air ye makin' it?"