Adventure, December 3, 1920 — page 149: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

get the laugh. The Messenger until nine, for I am an early riser. Slightly after nine I came sauntering into the park that lies in the heart of San Francisco, a big man with a big hat, big black specs perched on his big nose, and a big cigar to keep him company. There were plenty of bums, time-killers and loafers occupying the benches. I caught one chap raiding a scrap-paper bin for a morning newspaper, and since he was a decent old fellow I gave him ten dollars and sent him out to my house to attend to the carpeting, painting and other details. This in itself is enough to show the mood I was in. Any fool would have known that he would give the police a description of me and that he might steal half the stuff in the place. But I cared nothing for such trifles. I went over to the St. Francis and got a morning paper. A glance over it told me that there was no mention of any “Mysterious Mongolian Murder,” so I started back across the street. Just in time, too. There was a poor chap with a stick—a shrunken little old man— who was engaged in a mixup with a cable-car and a taxicab; he didn’t know which way to jump first, and the brute of a taxi-driver was bearing down on him with a grin, Naturally impulsive, I rescued the old chap from the cable-car and planted myself, with him under my arm, in front of the taxicab. There was a grind of brakes, and the taxi- driver backed water in a hurry. I carried the old chap across the street and set him down at the park path. . Then I perceived that he was pretty well gone to pieces. He leaned on his stick, mumbling at a great rate, and his eyes darting ‘around, One glance at his face told me that he was an opium- fiend. I would have left him then and there, except that he made a grab at my arm. “Help me!” he said. “Help me along to a bench. I'll tell you all about it.” “About what?” I said whimsically. He chattered for a moment, then answered me. “All of it, all of it!” he exclaimed, gripping at my arm. “Hat Shui and all of it! Only get me a pill; you never heard such a story! Get me a pill and I’ll tell you.” My jaw dropped. Then my hand dropped likewise—to the pocket in which lay James Death’s box of opium-pellets. VI I’VE read stories about the Gobi which made me want to shoot the writer, and sa I’ve also read stories where somebody takes a pipe or a pill of hop and promptly goes to sleep. You ought to hear how those boys I’ll defy anybody to produce anybody else who can take opium and go to sleep from the opium. It simply doesn’t act that way. It bucks up the brain instead of lulling it. 139 Well, to get back to the old chap who had mentioned Hat Shui. I guided him to a vacant bench, of which there were plenty in the shade, and we seated ourselves. He was a decently dressed fellow, and except for the peculiar hop- head complexion might have passed muster. Now, however, his nerves were flying wild and loose. I was afraid a policeman might come along and take him in as a suspect, so I fished in my pocket until I got one of the opium- pellets. Then I got my knife, cut the pellet in two and showed it to the old chap. “Half for you now,” I said, and gave it to him. ‘More later—when you have told me about Hat Shui. Who was he?” He popped the pill into his mouth and surveyed me with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Ex- cept for his clothes, he looked like any broken- down old wreck who panhandles you for a dime. I really thought he had come across the name in a paper perhaps. “Hat Shui?” he murmured vacantly. “Yes, yes! Ill tell you for more of it. He was one of the Ten, and he had formerly been the novice who arranged in Urga for the girls; you understand! He knew the outside world. One of them always did. It was he who bought me to join them, bought me with fifty thousand rubles, because I knew about guns. So I went, and then they would not let me go again. Then Kilgore came and we fought about the Russian girl, and when Kilgore beat me I did my best to betray him to Hat Shui £ He trailed off into a confused babbling in a tongue that seemed to be Russian. But I sat there, a cold hand at the back of my soul. This man could be no other, was no other, than James Death! Looking at him, I could not believe it possible. Those shaking fingers had not the force needful to drive home a knife. The face was that of a babbling fool. Yet—yet if this man were given opium and his brain lashed into action and all his vital forces stimulated—— “What’s your name?” I demanded. My voice must have frightened him. He rose and stood trembling. “Be careful!” I went on, shaking the opium- box in my pocket. ‘‘Here’s more hop, old man. Here’s a full box of it, and I'll give it all to you lateron. All of it! Sit down and tell me things, and J’ll give it all to you. What’s your name? He was down again. No hophead could have resisted that lure. “Death,” he mumbled, his eyes darting all around. “James Death. But that isn’t my name at all. I am a Russian, a gentleman, an engineer and a rich man! I will tell you how the Ten get their jewels, shall I? But give me more——” “Nothing doing,” I said, shoving away his hand. Already I was fearful lest the tiny bit COPMIE OOOKS ras. (E@)