"GOOD-BY, PETE!"
Charlie Chan lived in a bungalow that clung precariously to the side of
Punchbowl Hill. Pausing a moment at the Chinaman's gate, John Quincy
looked down on Honolulu, one great gorgeous garden set in an
amphitheater of mountains. A beautiful picture, but he had no time for
beauty now. He hurried up the brief walk that lay in the shadow of the
palm trees.
A Chinese woman--a servant, she seemed--ushered him into Chan's
dimly-lighted living-room. The detective was seated at a table playing
chess; he rose with dignity when he saw his visitor. In this, his hour
of ease, he wore a long loose robe of dark purple silk, which fitted
closely at the neck and had wide sleeves. Beneath it showed wide
trousers of the same material, and on his feet were shoes of silk, with
thick felt soles. He was all Oriental now, suave and ingratiating but
remote, and for the first time John Quincy was really conscious of the
great gulf across which he and Chan shook hands.
"You do my lowly house immense honor," Charlie said. "This proud moment
are made still more proud by opportunity to introduce my eldest son." He
motioned for his opponent at chess to step forward, a slim sallow boy
with amber eyes--Chan himself before he put on weight. "Mr. John Quincy
Winterslip, of Boston, kindly condescend to notice Henry Chan. When you
appear I am giving him lesson at chess so he may play in such manner as
not to tarnish honored name."
The boy bowed low; evidently he was one member of the younger generation
who had a deep respect for his elders. John Quincy also bowed. "Your
father is my very good friend," he said. "And from now on, you are too."
Chan beamed with pleasure. "Condescend to sit on this atrocious chair.
Is it possible you bring news?"
"It certainly is," smiled John Quincy. He handed over the message from
the postmaster at Des Moines.
"Most interesting," said Chan. "Do I hear impressive chug of rich
automobile engine in street?"
"Yes, I came in the car," John Quincy replied.
"Good. We will hasten at once to home of Captain Hallet, not far away. I
beg of you to pardon my disappearance while I don more appropriate
costume."
Left alone with the boy, John Quincy sought a topic of conversation.
"Play baseball?" he asked.
The boy's eyes glowed. "Not very good, but I hope to improve. My cousin
Willie Chan is great expert at that game. He has promised to teach me."
John Quincy glanced about the room. On the back wall hung a scroll with
felicitations, the gift of some friend of the family at New Year's.
Opposite him, on another wall, was a single picture, painted on silk,
representing a bird on an apple bough. Charmed by its simplicity, he
went over to examine it. "That's beautiful," he said.
"Quoting old Chinese saying, a picture is a voiceless poem," replied the
boy.
Beneath the picture stood a square table, flanked by straight,
low-backed armchairs. On other elaborately carved teakwood stands
distributed about the room were blue and white vases, porcelain wine
jars, dwarfed trees. Pale golden lanterns hung from the ceiling; a
soft-toned rug lay on the floor. John Quincy felt again the gulf between
himself and Charlie Chan.
But when the detective returned, he wore the conventional garb of Los
Angeles or Detroit, and the gulf did not seem so wide. They went out
together and entering the roadster, drove to Hallet's house on Iolani
Avenue.
The captain lolled in pajamas on his lanai. He greeted his callers with
interest.
"You boys are out late," he said. "Something doing?"
"Certainly is," replied John Quincy, taking a proffered chair. "There's
a man named Saladine--"
At mention of the name, Hallet looked at him keenly. John Quincy went on
to tell what he knew of Saladine, his alleged place of residence, his
business, the tragedy of the lost teeth.
"Some time ago we got on to the fact that every time Kaohla figured in
the investigation, Saladine was interested. He managed to be at the desk
of the Reef and Palm the day Kaohla inquired for Brade. On the night
Kaohla was questioned by your men, Miss Egan saw Mr. Saladine crouching
outside the window. So Charlie and I thought it a good scheme to send a
cable of inquiry to the postmaster at Des Moines, where Saladine claimed
to be in the wholesale grocery business." He handed an envelope to
Hallet. "That answer arrived to-night," he added.
An odd smile had appeared on Hallet's usually solemn face. He took the
cable and read it, then slowly tore it into bits.
"Forget it, boys," he said calmly.
"Wha--what!" gasped John Quincy.
"I said forget it. I like your enterprise, but you're on the wrong trail
there."
John Quincy was greatly annoyed. "I demand an explanation," he cried.
"I can't give it to you," Hallet answered. "You'll have to take my word
for it."
"I've taken your word for a good many things," said John Quincy hotly.
"This begins to look rather suspicious to me. Are you trying to shield
somebody?"
Hallet rose and laid his hand on John Quincy's shoulder. "I've had a
hard day," he remarked, "and I'm not going to get angry with you. I'm
not trying to shield anybody. I'm as anxious as you are to discover who
killed Dan Winterslip. More anxious, perhaps."
"Yet when we bring you evidence you tear it up--"
"Bring me the right evidence," said Hallet. "Bring me that wrist watch.
I can promise you action then."
John Quincy was impressed by the sincerity in his tone. But he was sadly
puzzled, too. "All right," he said, "that's that. I'm sorry if we've
troubled you with this trivial matter--"
"Don't talk like that," Hallet broke in. "I'm glad of your help. But as
far as Mr. Saladine is concerned--" he looked at Chan--"let him alone."
Chan bowed. "You are undisputable chief," he replied.
They went back to Punchbowl Hill in the roadster, both rather dejected.
As Chan alighted at his gate, John Quincy spoke: "Well, I'm pau.
Saladine was my last hope."
The Chinaman stared for a moment at the moonlit Pacific that lay beyond
the water-front lamps. "Stone wall surround us," he said dreamily. "But
we circle about, seeking loophole. Moment of discovery will come."
"I wish I thought so," replied John Quincy.
Chan smiled. "Patience are a very lovely virtue," he remarked. "Seem
that way to me. But maybe that are my Oriental mind. Your race, I
perceive, regard patience with ever-swelling disfavor."
It was with swelling disfavor that John Quincy regarded it as he drove
back to Waikiki. Yet he had great need of patience in the days
immediately following. For nothing happened.
The forty-eight-hour period given him to leave Hawaii expired, but the
writer of that threatening letter failed to come forward and relieve the
tedium. Thursday arrived, a calm day like the others; Thursday night,
peaceful and serene.
On Friday afternoon Agatha Parker broke the monotony by a cable sent
from the Wyoming ranch.
"You must be quite mad. I find the West crude and impossible."
John Quincy smiled; he could picture her as she wrote it, proud,
haughty, unyielding. She must have been popular with the man who
transmitted the message. Or was he, too, an exile from the East?
And perhaps the girl was right. Perhaps he was mad, after all. He sat on
Dan Winterslip's lanai, trying to think things out. Boston, the office,
the art gallery, the theaters. The Common on a winter's day, with the
air bracing and full of life. The thrill of a new issue of bonds, like
the thrill of a theatrical first night--would it get over big or flop at
his feet? Tennis at Longwood, long evenings on the Charles, golf with
people of his own kind at Magnolia. Tea out of exquisite cups in dim old
drawing-rooms. Wasn't he mad to think of giving up all that? But what
had Miss Minerva said? "If your chance ever comes--"
The problem was a big one, and big problems were annoying out here where
the lotus grew. He yawned, and went aimlessly down-town. Drifting into
the public library, he saw Charlie Chan hunched over a table that held
an enormous volume. John Quincy went closer. The book was made up of
back numbers of the Honolulu morning paper, and it was open at a
time-yellowed sporting page.
"Hello, Chan. What are you up to?"
The Chinaman gave him a smile of greeting. "Hello. Little bit of
careless reading while I gallop about seeking loophole." He closed the
big volume casually. "You seem in the best of health."
"Oh, I'm all right."
"No more fierce shots out of bushes?"
"Not a trigger pulled. I imagine that was a big bluff--nothing more."
"What do you say--bluff?"
"I mean the fellow's a coward, after all."
Chan shook his head solemnly. "Pardon humble suggestion--do not lose
carefulness. Hot heads plenty in hot climate."
"I'll look before I leap," John Quincy promised. "But I'm afraid I
interrupted you."
"Ridiculous thought," protested Chan.
"I'll go along. Let me know if anything breaks."
"Most certainly. Up to present, everything are intact."
John Quincy paused at the door of the reference room Charlie Chan had
promptly opened the big book, and was again bending over it with every
show of interest.
Returning to Waikiki, John Quincy faced a dull evening. Barbara had gone
to the island of Kauai for a visit with old friends of the family. He
had not been sorry when she went, for he didn't feel quite at ease in
her presence. The estrangement between the girl and Jennison continued;
the lawyer had not been at the dock to see her off. Yes, John Quincy had
parted from her gladly, but her absence cast a pall of loneliness over
the house on Kalia Road.
After dinner, he sat with his pipe on the lanai. Down the beach at the
Reef and Palm pleasant company was available--but he hesitated. He had
seen Carlota Egan several times by day, on the beach or in the water.
She was very happy now, though somewhat appalled at thought of her
approaching visit to England. They'd had several talks about
that--daylight talks. John Quincy was a bit afraid to entrust
himself--as Chan had said in speaking of his stone idol--of an evening.
After all, there was Agatha, there was Boston. There was Barbara, too.
Being entangled with three girls at once was a rather wearing
experience. He rose, and went down-town to the movies.
On Saturday morning he was awakened early by the whir of aeroplanes
above the house. The American fleet was in the offing, and the little
brothers of the air service hastened out to hover overhead in friendly
welcome. That day a spirit of carnival prevailed in Honolulu, flags
floated from every masthead, and the streets bloomed, as Barbara had
predicted, with handsome boys in spotless uniforms. They were
everywhere, swarming in the souvenir stores, besieging the soda
fountains, sky-larking on the trolley-cars. Evening brought a great ball
at the beach hotel, and John Quincy, out for a walk, saw that every spic
and span uniform moved toward Waikiki, accompanied by a fair young thing
who was only too happy to serve as sweetheart in that particular port.
John Quincy felt, suddenly, rather out of things. Each pretty girl he
saw recalled Carlota Egan. He turned his wandering footsteps toward the
Reef and Palm, and oddly enough, his pace quickened at once.
The proprietor himself was behind the desk, his eyes calm and untroubled
now.
"Good evening, Mr. Egan--or should I say Mr. Cope," remarked John
Quincy.
"Oh, we'll stick to the Egan, I guess," the man replied. "Sort of got
out of the hang of the other. Mr. Winterslip, I'm happy to see you. Cary
will be down in a moment."
John Quincy gazed about the big public room. It was a scene of
confusion, spattered ladders, buckets of paint, rolls of new wall-paper.
"What's going on?" he inquired.
"Freshening things up a bit," Egan answered. "You know, we're in society
now." He laughed. "Yes, sir, the old Reef and Palm has been standing
here a long time without so much as a glance from the better element of
Honolulu. But now they know I'm related to the British Admiralty,
they've suddenly discovered it's a quaint and interesting place. They're
dropping in for tea. Just fancy. But that's Honolulu."
"That's Boston, too," John Quincy assured him.
"Yes--and precisely the sort of thing I ran away from England to escape,
a good many years ago. I'd tell them all to go to the devil--but there's
Cary. Somehow, women feel differently about those things. It will warm
her heart a bit to have these dowagers smile upon her. And they're
smiling--you know, they've even dug up the fact that my Cousin George
has been knighted for making a particularly efficient brand of soap." He
grimaced. "It's nothing I'd have mentioned myself--a family skeleton, as
I see it. But society has odd standards. And I mustn't be hard on poor
old George. As Arthur says, making soap is good clean fun."
"Is your brother still with you?"
"No. He's gone back to finish his job in the Fanning Group. When he
returns, I'm sending Cary to England for a long stop. Yes, that's
right--_I'm_ sending her," he added quickly. "I'm paying for these
repairs, too. You see, I've been able to add a second mortgage to the
one already on the poor tottering Reef and Palm. That's another outcome
of my new-found connection with the British Admiralty and the silly old
soap business. Here's Cary now."
John Quincy turned. And he was glad he had, for he would not willingly
have missed the picture of Carlota on the stairs. Carlota in an evening
gown of some shimmering material, her dark hair dressed in a new and
amazingly effective way, her white shoulders gleaming, her eyes happy at
last. As she came quickly toward him he caught his breath, never had he
seen her look so beautiful. She must have heard his voice in the office,
he reflected, and with surprising speed arrayed herself thus to greet
him. He was deeply grateful as he took her hand.
"Stranger," she rebuked. "We thought you'd deserted us."
"I'd never do that," he answered. "But I've been rather busy--"
A step sounded behind him. He turned, and there stood one of those
ubiquitous navy boys, a tall, blond Adonis who held his cap in his hand
and smiled in a devastating way.
"Hello, Johnnie," Carlota said. "Mr. Winterslip, of Boston, this is
Lieutenant Booth, of Richmond, Virginia."
"How are you," nodded the boy, without removing his eyes from the girl's
face. Just one of the guests, this Winterslip, no account at all--such
was obviously the lieutenant's idea. "All ready, Cary? The car's
outside."
"I'm frightfully sorry, Mr. Winterslip," said the girl, "but we're off
to the dance. This week-end belongs to the navy, you know. You'll come
again, won't you?"
"Of course," John Quincy replied. "Don't let me keep you."
She smiled at him and fled with Johnnie at her side. Looking after them,
John Quincy felt his heart sink to his boots, an unaccountable sensation
of age and helplessness. Youth, youth was going through that door, and
he was left behind.
"A great pity she had to run," said Egan in a kindly voice.
"Why, that's all right," John Quincy assured him. "Old friend of the
family, this Lieutenant Booth?"
"Not at all. Just a lad Cary met at parties in San Francisco. Won't you
sit down and have a smoke with me?"
"Some other time, thanks," John Quincy said wearily. "I must hurry back
to the house."
He wanted to escape, to get out into the calm lovely night, the night
that was ruined for him now. He walked along the beach, savagely kicking
his toes into the white sand. "Johnnie!" She had called him Johnnie.
And the way she had looked at him, too! Again John Quincy felt that
sharp pang in his heart. Foolish, foolish; better go back to Boston and
forget. Peaceful old Boston, that was where he belonged. He was an old
man out here--thirty, nearly. Better go away and leave these children to
love and the moonlit beach.
Miss Minerva had gone in the big car to call on friends, and the house
was quiet as the tomb. John Quincy wandered aimlessly about the rooms,
gloomy and bereft. Down at the Moana an Hawaiian orchestra was playing
and Lieutenant Booth, of Richmond, was holding Carlota close in the
intimate manner affected these days by the young. Bah! If he hadn't been
ordered to leave Hawaii, by gad, he'd go to-morrow.
The telephone rang. None of the servants appeared to answer it, so John
Quincy went himself.
"Charlie Chan speaking," said a voice. "That is you, Mr. Winterslip?
Good. Big events will come to pass very quick. Meet me drug and grocery
emporium of Liu Yin, number 927 River Street, soon as you can do so. You
savvy locality?"
"I'll find it," cried John Quincy, delighted.
"By bank of stream. I will await. Good-by."
Action--action at last! John Quincy's heart beat fast. Action was what
he wanted to-night. As usually happens in a crisis, there was no
automobile available; the roadster was at a garage undergoing repairs,
and the other car was in use. He hastened over to Kalakaua Avenue
intending to rent a machine, but a trolley approaching at the moment
altered his plans and he swung aboard.
Never had a trolley moved at so reluctant a pace. When they reached the
corner of Fort Street in the center of the city, he left it and
proceeded on foot. The hour was still fairly early, but the scene was
one of somnolent calm. A couple of tourists drifted aimlessly by. About
the bright doorway of a shooting gallery loitered a group of soldiers
from the fort, with a sprinkling of enlisted navy men. John Quincy
hurried on down King Street, past Chinese noodle cafés and pawn shops,
and turned presently off into River Street.
On his left was the river, on his right an array of shabby stores. He
paused at the door of number 927, the establishment of Liu Yin. Inside,
seated behind a screen that revealed only their heads, a number of
Chinese were engrossed in a friendly little game. John Quincy opened the
door; a bell tinkled, and he stepped into an odor of must and decay.
Curious sights met his quick eye, dried roots and herbs, jars of
sea-horse skeletons, dejected ducks flattened out and varnished to tempt
the palate, gobbets of pork. An old Chinaman rose and came forward.
"I'm looking for Mr. Charlie Chan," said John Quincy.
The old man nodded and led the way to a red curtain across the rear of
the shop. He lifted it, and indicated that John Quincy was to pass. The
boy did so, and came into a bare room furnished with a cot, a table on
which an oil lamp burned dimly behind a smoky chimney, and a couple of
chairs. A man who had been sitting on one of the chairs rose suddenly; a
huge red-haired man with the smell of the sea about him.
"Hello," he said.
"Is Mr. Chan here?" John Quincy inquired.
"Not yet. He'll be along in a minute. What say to a drink while we're
waiting. Hey, Liu, a coupla glasses that rotten rice wine!"
The Chinaman withdrew. "Sit down," said the man. John Quincy obeyed; the
sailor sat too. One of his eye-lids drooped wickedly; he rested his
hands on the table--enormous hairy hands. "Charlie'll be here pretty
quick," he said. "Then I got a little story to tell the two of you."
"Yes?" John Quincy replied. He glanced about the little vile-smelling
room. There was a door, a closed door, at the back. He looked again at
the red-haired man. He wondered how he was going to get out of there.
For he knew now that Charlie Chan had not called him on the telephone.
It came to him belatedly that the voice was never Charlie's. "You savvy
locality?" the voice had said. A clumsy attempt at Chan's style, but
Chan was a student of English; he dragged his words painfully from the
poets; he was careful to use nothing that savored of "pidgin." No, the
detective had not telephoned; he was no doubt at home now bending over
his chess-board, and here was John Quincy shut up in a little room on
the fringe of the River District with a husky sailorman who leered at
him knowingly.
The old Chinaman returned with two small glasses into which the liquor
had already been poured. He set them on the table. The red-haired man
lifted one of them. "Your health, sir," he said.
John Quincy took up the other glass and raised it to his lips. There was
a suspicious eagerness in the sailor's one good eye. John Quincy put the
glass back on the table. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't want a drink,
thank you."
The great face with its stubble of red beard leaned close to his. "Y'
mean you won't drink with me?" said the red-haired man belligerently.
"That's just what I mean," John Quincy answered. Might as well get it
over with, he felt; anything was better than this suspense. He stood up.
"I'll be going along," he announced.
He took a step toward the red curtain. The sailor, evidently a fellow of
few words, rose and got in his way. John Quincy, himself feeling the
futility of talk, said nothing, but struck the man in the face. The
sailor struck back with efficiency and promptness. In another second the
room was full of battle, and John Quincy saw red everywhere, red
curtain, red hair, red lamp flame, great red hairy hands cunningly
seeking his face. What was it Roger had said? "Ever fought with a ship's
officer--the old-fashioned kind with fists like flying hams?" No, he
hadn't up to then, but that sweet experience was his now, and it came to
John Quincy pleasantly that he was doing rather well at his new trade.
This was better than the attic; here he was prepared and had a chance.
Time and again he got his hands on the red curtain, only to be dragged
back and subjected to a new attack. The sailor was seeking to knock him
out, and though many of his blows went home, that happy result--from the
standpoint of the red-haired man--was unaccountably delayed. John Quincy
had a similar aim in life; they lunged noisily about the room, while the
surprising Orientals in the front of the shop continued their quiet
game.
John Quincy felt himself growing weary; his breath came painfully; he
realized that his adversary had not yet begun to fight. Standing with
his back to the table in an idle moment while the red-haired man made
plans for the future, the boy hit on a plan of his own. He overturned
the table; the lamp crashed down; darkness fell over the world. In the
final glimmer of light he saw the big man coming for him and dropping to
his knees he tackled in the approved manner of Soldiers' Field,
Cambridge, Massachusetts. Culture prevailed; the sailor went on his head
with a resounding thump; John Quincy let go of him and sought the
nearest exit. It happened to be the door at the rear, and it was
unlocked.
He passed hurriedly through a cluttered back yard and climbing a fence,
found himself in the neighborhood known as the River District. There in
crazy alleys that have no names, no sidewalks, no beginning and no end,
five races live together in the dark. Some houses were above the walk
level, some below, all were out of alignment. John Quincy felt he had
wandered into a futurist drawing. As he paused he heard the whine and
clatter of Chinese music, the clicking of a typewriter, the rasp of a
cheap phonograph playing American jazz, the distant scream of an auto
horn, a child wailing Japanese lamentations. Footsteps in the yard
beyond the fence roused him, and he fled.
He must get out of this mystic maze of mean alleys, and at once. Odd
painted faces loomed in the dusk: pasty-white faces with just a
suggestion of queer costumes beneath. A babel of tongues, queer eyes
that glittered, once a lean hand on his arm. A group of moon-faced
Chinese children under a lamp who scattered at his approach. And when he
paused again, out of breath, the patter of many feet, bare feet,
sandaled feet, the clatter of wooden clogs, the squeak of cheap shoes
made in his own Massachusetts. Then suddenly the thump of large feet
such as might belong to a husky sailor. He moved on.
Presently he came into the comparative quiet of River Street, and
realized that he had traveled in a circle, for there was Liu Yin's shop
again. As he hurried on toward King Street, he saw, over his shoulder,
that the red-haired man still followed. A big touring car, with curtains
drawn, waited by the curb. John Quincy leaped in beside the driver.
"Get out of here, quick!" he panted.
A sleepy Japanese face looked at him through the gloom. "Busy now."
"I don't care if you are--" began John Quincy, and glanced down at one
of the man's arms resting on the wheel. His heart stood still. In the
dusk he saw a wrist watch with an illuminated dial, and the numeral two
was very dim.
Even as he looked, strong hands seized him by the collar and dragged him
into the dark tonneau. At the same instant, the red-haired man arrived.
"Got him, Mike? Say, that's luck!" He leaped into the rear of the car.
Quick able work went forward, John Quincy's hands were bound behind his
back, a vile-tasting gag was put in his mouth. "Damned if this bird
didn't land me one in the eye," said the red-haired man. "I'll pay him
for it when we get aboard. Hey you--Pier 78. Show us some speed!"
The car leaped forward. John Quincy lay on the dusty floor, bound and
helpless. To the docks? But he wasn't thinking of that, he was thinking
of the watch on the driver's wrist.
A brief run, and they halted in the shadow of a pier-shed. John Quincy
was lifted and propelled none too gently from the car. His cheek was
jammed against one of the buttons holding the side curtain, and he had
sufficient presence of mind to catch the gag on it and loosen it. As
they left the car he tried to get a glimpse of its license plate, but he
was able to ascertain only the first two figures--33--before it sped
away.
His two huge chaperons hurried him along the dock. Some distance off he
saw a little group of men, three in white uniforms, one in a darker
garb. The latter was smoking a pipe. John Quincy's heart leaped. He
maneuvered the loosened gag with his teeth, so that it dropped about his
collar. "Good-by, Pete!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, and
launched at once into a terrific struggle to break away from his
startled captors.
There was a moment's delay, and then the clatter of feet along the dock.
A stocky boy in a white uniform began an enthusiastic debate with Mike,
and the other two were prompt to claim the attention of the red-haired
man. Pete Mayberry was at John Quincy's back, cutting the rope on his
wrists.
"Well, I'll be damned, Mr. Winterslip," he cried.
"Same here," laughed John Quincy. "Shanghaied in another minute but for
you." He leaped forward to join the battle, but the red-haired man and
his friend had already succumbed to youth and superior forces, and were
in full retreat. John Quincy followed joyously along the dock, and
planted his fist back of his old adversary's ear. The sailor staggered,
but regained his balance and went on.
John Quincy returned to his rescuers. "The last blow is the sweetest,"
he remarked.
"I can place those guys," said Mayberry. "They're off that tramp steamer
that's been lying out in the harbor the past week. An opium runner, I'll
gamble on it. You go to the police station right away--"
"Yes," said John Quincy, "I must. But I want to thank you, Mr. Mayberry.
And"--he turned to the white uniforms--"you fellows too."
The stocky lad was picking up his cap. "Why, that's all right," he said.
"A real pleasure, if you ask me. But look here, old timer," he added,
addressing Mayberry, "how about your Honolulu water-front and its lost
romance? You go tell that to the marines."
As John Quincy hurried away Pete Mayberry was busily explaining that the
thing was unheard of--not in twenty years--maybe more than that--his
voice died in the distance.
Hallet was in his room, and John Quincy detailed his evening's
adventure. The captain was incredulous, but when the boy came to the
wrist watch on the driver of the car, he sat up and took notice.
"Now you're talking," he cried. "I'll start the force after that car
to-night. First two figures 33, you say. I'll send somebody aboard that
tramp, too. They can't get away with stuff like that around here."
"Oh, never mind them," said John Quincy magnanimously. "Concentrate on
the watch."
Back in the quiet town he walked with his head up, his heart full of the
joy of battle. And while he thought of it, he stepped into the cable
office. The message he sent was addressed to Agatha Parker on that
Wyoming ranch. "San Francisco or nothing," was all it said.
As he walked down the deserted street on his way to the corner to wait
for his trolley, he heard quick footsteps on his trail again. Who now?
He was sore and weary, a bit fed up on fighting for one evening. He
quickened his pace. The steps quickened too. He went even faster. So
did his pursuer. Oh, well, might as well stop and face him.
John Quincy turned. A young man rushed up, a lean young man in a cap.
"Mr. Winterslip, ain't it?" He thrust a dark brown object into John
Quincy's hand. "Your July _Atlantic_, sir. Came in on the _Maui_ this
morning."
"Oh," said John Quincy limply. "Well, I'll take it. My aunt might like
to look at it. Keep the change."
"Thank you, sir," said the newsman, touching his cap.
John Quincy rode out to Waikiki on the last seat of the car. His face
was swollen and cut, every muscle ached. Under his arm, clasped tightly,
he held the July _Atlantic_. But he didn't so much as look at the table
of contents. "We move, we advance," he told himself exultantly. For he
had seen the watch with the illuminated dial--the dial on which the
numeral two was very dim.