"HE'S A REGULAR BRICK."
"This is pleasant!" thought Stan as he stepped on to the gangway. "If
this man is our servant he oughtn't to speak to me like that. Here! I
shall have a to go back by the next boat. Father and Uncle Jeff don't
want me to be treated like this."
It was a cheerless welcome to the place that was to be his new home for
the time, and a feeling of resentment began to grow up within him as he
stepped on to the wharf, meeting the manager's eyes boldly, and
gradually feeling more and more determined to maintain his position and
not allow himself to be, as he termed it, "sat upon" by this bullying
sort of individual.
A fierce stare was exchanged for some moments before the manager spoke
again, more gruffly than ever, just as Wing handed him the packet of
letters he had brought.
"Better come in here," he said.--"You, Wing, tell the skipper to make
all fast. I won't have any unloading till the morning."
He led the way to what seemed to be the office of the great warehouse,
for there were desks, stools, and writing implements, while maps hung
from the wall, and bills of lading in files decorated the place in a way
which made it look more grim and showed up its bareness.
As soon as they were inside, the manager perched himself on a high
stool, took a big ebony ruler off the desk, and began rolling it to and
fro upon his knees, before opening the principal letter of the batch,
one which Stan could see plainly had been written by his uncle.
This missive the manager read through twice before laying it flat upon
the table and giving it a bang with his open hand.
"Bah!" he growled. "Stan Lynn--Stan Lynn. What a name for a boy! Why
did your people christen you that?"
"They didn't," said Stan coolly, though he could feel a peculiar
twitching going on along his nerves.
"What!" cried the manager fiercely--quite in the tone he would have used
to a contradictory coolie. "Why, look here," he continued, bringing his
hand down on the packet of letters with another heavy bang which made
the ink start out of the well. "Why, I have it here, in your father's
handwriting. Um--um--um! Where is it? Oh, here: `my son Stan'."
"Nonsense! Let's look," said the boy sharply, and quickly stepping
forward to look at the writing. "'Tisn't; it's `Stanley,' only my
father has contracted the `ley' into a dash. It's a way he has."
"Then it's time he began to write plainly. Who's to know what he
means?"
"Any one," said Stan quite as fiercely. "And look here; you wouldn't
speak of my father's writing like that if he were here."
"What!" roared the manager, giving the desk a tremendous bang with the
big ebony ruler to frighten Stan, who began to perspire profusely, but
not from alarm. His temper, that had been fast asleep, was aroused by
the reception he was having, and feeling at once that life with this man
would be unbearable, he spoke out at once boldly and defiantly.
"I spoke plainly enough," he said haughtily, "and you know what I said."
"Well," cried the manager, "of all the insolent young coxcombs I ever
encountered, you take the prize. Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," said Stan; "my father's manager."
"Yes, sir, I am," he roared; "and I know how to manage men, let alone
cocky, conceited boys. Don't you think you are coming here to lord it
and set up your feathers, and crow and grow scarlet in the comb. I
shall soon cut that for you, so just get ready to take your proper place
at once. I'd have you to know that I have as much authority and am as
much master in this solitary, out-of-the-way place as if I were a king."
"Over the Chinese coolies, perhaps," said Stan firmly, "but not over
me."
"What I--Why, the boy's mad with conceit."
"No, I'm not," said Stan--"not conceited at all; and if you behave
properly to me you'll find that I shall help you in every way I can."
"Behave properly! Oh, come! this is rich. Here's a boy who ought to be
at school, where he would get the cane if he did not behave himself,
vapouring about as if he had come to be master here. There! the sooner
we understand each other the better--Mr Stanley--sir."
There was a mocking sarcasm in the delivery of these last words that
made the boy writhe. But he mastered his temper bravely enough, and
said coolly:
"I don't want to be called `Mr Stanley' and `sir.' I was christened
Stanley, but my friends looked upon it as being too pretentious. They
always call me Stan."
"Oh, I see! Thank you for the kind explanation," said the manager
sarcastically. "Well, here you are; and now you are here, what do you
want? I see you've brought a gun. Come snipe and duck shooting?"
"My father has fully explained in his letter, I believe."
"Explained? Perhaps so; but I have not had time to read it yet, so
perhaps you will speak."
"That is easily done. You wrote to the firm asking for help and
companionship."
"Of course I did; and I took it for granted that Mr Jeffrey Lynn would
come and share the burden of my enormously increasing work."
"It is all explained in the letters, as I told you," said Stan. "Uncle
was coming, but the Chinese made an attack on the place."
"Eh? What's that?" cried the manager excitedly; and Stan gave him a
brief account of what had passed, while every word was listened to
eagerly.
"It was quite out of the question for my father to be left," ended Stan
at last, "and so I am sent to help instead."
"Humph!" said the manager, looking grave. "It has come to that, has it?
Restless, uncontrolled savages. Well," he added, changing his tone
again, "so they've sent a boy like you?"
"Yes."
"And for want of decent help and companionship, I'm to make the best of
you?"
"I suppose so," said Stan coldly, and wishing the while that he was back
at Hai-Hai, home, or anywhere but at this solitary _hong_.
"But I don't think you'll like the life here, young fellow," said the
manager, with an unpleasant smile. "There's a very savage, piratical
lot of Chinese about on this river. It has an awful character. If
you'll take my advice--Will you?"
"Of course," said Stan quietly. "You must know better, from your
experience here, than I do."
"That's right; I do. Well, then, you take it: go back by the next boat.
It doesn't look as if things are very safe at Hai-Hai, but it's a
paradise to this place here."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Stan, "but I certainly can't go back; I
have come to stay."
"Oh, very well!" said the manager. "I've warned you. I wash my hands
of the whole affair. But I'll promise you this: I'll get your remains
together."
"My remains?" said Stan, aghast.
"Of course; they are sure to hack you to pieces--it's a way they have.
And there'll be some difficulty, perhaps, in recovering your head. They
generally carry that off as a trophy; but I'll do my best to get you
back to the old folks in a cask of Chinese palm-spirit. Will that do?"
During the past few moments Stan had felt a sensation as if cold steel
of wondrously sharp edge were at work upon his back and across his neck;
but the tone of the question brought him back to himself, and he replied
calmly:
"Capitally. But, by the way, if the savage pirates come and treat me
like that, where will you be?"
"Eh?" said the manager, staring. "Where shall I be?"
"Yes. Isn't it just as likely that I should have to do this duty for
you?"
"Oh, I see! Yes, of course; but--Ha, ha, ha! Come! you have got
something in you after all. You are pretty sharp."
"Just sharp enough to see that you are trying to frighten me."
"Humph!" ejaculated the manager, with a dry smile. "But you've had a
sample of what these people can do, and I won't answer for it that they
don't try some of their capers here. Then you mean to risk it?"
"Of course," said Stan. "My father and uncle sent me to help you."
"Well, don't blame me if you get your head taken off."
"No," said Stan coolly, and with a peculiar smile; "I don't think I
shall do that--then."
"More do I," said the manager grimly. "Well, here you are, and I
suppose I must make the best of you."
"I suppose so," said Stan.
"You'll have to work pretty hard--make entries and keep the day-book. I
suppose you can do that?"
"I suppose so," said the lad, "but I can't say for certain till I try."
"All right; then the sooner you try the better, because I've got enough
to do here in keeping things straight; and if you find that you can't, I
shall just pack you off back to your father and uncle. You're too
young, and not the sort of chap I should have chosen for the job."
"Indeed! What sort of a lad would you have chosen?"
"Oh, not a dandified, pomatumed fellow like you, who is so very
particular about his collar and cuffs, and looks as if he'd be afraid to
dirty his hands."
"I don't see that because a fellow is clean he is not so good for work,"
said Stan.
"Oh, don't you? Well, I've had some experience, my lad. I want here a
fellow who knows how to rough it. You don't."
"But I suppose I can learn."
"Learn? Of course you can, but you won't. There! you've come, and I
suppose, as I said before, I must make the best of you; but next time
you see the heads of the firm, perhaps you'll tell them that I don't
consider it part of my business as manager of this out-of-the-way place
to lick their cubs into shape."
"Hadn't you better write and tell them so?" said the lad warmly.
"What!" roared the man. "Now just look here, young fellow; you and I
had better come to an understanding at once. Whether it's clerk,
warehouseman, or Chinese coolie, I put up with no insolence. It's a
word and a blow with me, as sure as my name's Sam Blunt."
"Sam!" said the lad quietly. "What a name! Why did your people
christen you that?"
The manager tilted his stool back till he could balance himself on two
of its legs and let his head rest against the whitewashed wall of the
bare-looking office, staring in astonishment at his visitor. Then
leaning forward again, he came down on all four legs of his tall stool,
caught up the big ebony ruler, and brought it down with a fresh bang
upon the desk, which made the ink this time jump out of the little well
in a fountain, as he stared fiercely at the lad, who returned his gaze
perfectly unmoved.
"Well, of all,"--he said; he did not say what, but kept on staring.
"What sort of a fellow do you call yourself?" he cried at last.
"I don't know," was the cool reply.
"No; I don't suppose you do. But look here; I'm going to look over that
and set it down to ignorance, as you are quite a stranger; and so let me
tell you there's only one man whom I allow to call me Sam Blunt, and I'm
that man. Understand?"
The lad nodded.
"There! as you're the son of one of the principals, and don't know any
better, I won't quarrel with you."
"That's right," said the lad coolly; and the man stared again.
"Because," he continued, "I'm thinking that we shall have plenty of
quarrelling to do with John Chinaman."
"Is there any likelihood of our going to war?" said the lad quickly.
"Every likelihood," said the man, watching his visitor keenly; "and if I
were you I'd have a bad attack of fever while my shoes were good."
"I didn't know one could have, or not have, fever just as one liked."
"I suppose not," said his companion. "But you take my advice: you catch
a bad fever at once. And then, as there is no doctor anywhere here, and
I'm a horribly bad nurse, I'll send you back to Hai-Hai at once for your
people to set you right."
"You mean sham illness?" said Stan sharply.
"What! Why, hang me if you're not a smarter fellow than I took you for!
Yes, that's it; and then you'll go back and be safe."
"Safe from what?"
"Being made into mincemeat by the first party of Chinese pirates who
come this way. They're splendid for that, as I hinted to you before.
Nothing they love better than chopping up a foreign devil like you."
"Hadn't you better have a fever too?" said the lad quietly.
"Oh, come! Better and better!" cried the other. "You're not such a
fool as you look, young fellow! No: I've got too much to do to go away
from this go-down, and your people know it. That's why they've sent you
to get in my way and put me out of temper. I say, though; you've heard
nothing about the breaking out of war?"
"Not a word since I've been in China. I heard something on my voyage."
"Of course you haven't, or your father and uncle wouldn't have sent you
down here. But you may take my word for it, there's trouble coming--and
that, too, before long. Did you see many piratical-looking war-junks as
you came up the river?"
"N-no," said Stan. "I saw several big mat-sailed barges with high
sterns, and great eyes painted in their bows; but I thought they were
trading-boats."
"So they are, my lad--one day; they're pirates the next. And perhaps on
the very next they're men-o'-war. Anything, according to circumstances,
for I've found out that _artful_ is the best word for describing a
Chinaman. But there! you'll soon know. Look here; after what I've told
you, do you mean to stay?"
"Certainly," said Stan.
"Very well, then. Come and have a look at my quarters. They're a bit
rough, but you say you won't mind roughing it."
"No," said Stan; "I've come here to do the best I can."
"Oh!" said the manager in a tone full of surprise; "that's what you've
come for, is it?"
"Of course," said Stan, wondering at the tone the man had taken.
"Very well, then, we may as well shake hands. I was just thinking of
sitting down to dinner when the junk came in sight, so you'll come and
join me--eh?"
"Yes," said Stan; "I am getting hungry."
"That's right. I say, though, squire; you think me a regular ruffian,
don't you?"
"Yes," said the lad quietly.
"Oh, come! That's frank, anyhow."
"It makes you rough and disposed to bully, living a solitary life like
this, I suppose."
"Humph!" said the manager, frowning; "but I don't know what you mean by
solitary. I have English clerks and checking-men, and a whole gang of
coolies. Do you call that solitary?"
"But they are under you. I suppose you live a good deal by yourself."
"Humph! Yes," said the manager.
"And that, of course, makes you rough."
"P'raps so. But you won't find me so rough when you get used to me.
There! come along and let's see what my cook has got for us this
evening. You'll have to take pot-luck. Wing will contrive something
better. Come on."
There was a grim, satisfied smile in the manager's countenance as he
rose, took a great stride such as his long legs enabled him to do with
ease, and clapping Stan on the shoulder, swung him round and looked him
straight in the face.
"Why, youngster," he said, "your father must have been wonderfully like
you in the phiz when he was your age; but in downright style of speaking
and ways you put me wonderfully in mind of your uncle Jeffrey."
"Do I?" said Stan quietly.
"You do; but he's a regular brick of a man."
"That he is," cried Stan warmly; "but that means I'm not a bit like him
there."
"Oh, I don't know," said the manager slowly. "One can't say at the end
of half-an-hour, but I'm beginning to think you will not be so very bad
after all."
"I hope not," said Stan, smiling.
"I thought at first that you would be a regular stuck-up cub. But I
don't think so now. Look here, youngster; can you be honest?"
"I hope so."
"Then tell me what you thought of me."
"That you were a disagreeable bully."
"Hah! That's pretty blunt," said the manager, frowning. "So that's
what you think of me, is it?"
"You asked me what I thought of you, not what I think."
"Right; so I did. Then what do you think of me?"
"That you're going to prove not so bad as I thought."
"Dinnee all getting velly cold, cookee say, Mistee Blunt," said Wing in
a deprecating voice; and they both started to see that the Chinaman had
entered quietly upon his thick, soft boot-soles.
"All right, Wing; coming," cried the manager shortly.--"Come along,
captain; you and I are going to be great friends."