Adventure Magazine Cover — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

20 fat-faced, pig-like type—Southern Chinese, I guessed; hairless, thin-lipped, and with eyes whose viciousness was partly masked by encroaching rolls of fat. More than any- thing, they reminded me of puff-adders— bloated, unmoving, and deadly. The man in the chair, on the other hand, was lean and almost Caucasian in feature. It was with a sudden shock that, ‘looking at the cruel curve of his mouth and jaw, I recognized him as the fake American consular officer who had led us to this place. As I looked at him, his eyes met mine, and I expected to meet at least some flicker of triumph in his face; but there was none. Unable to support the inhuman gaze, I looked away at the empty throne which stood at the other side of the room from his, and tried to concentrate on wondering who was to occupy it. As I did so, he gave a curt order in Chinese, and our guards pushed us away from our position near the door to the op- posite end of the chamber from the council. Behind us’was the wall, with its line of armed men. Our escort divided—two men at each side of us, and four between Burns and myself. Evidently our business was not first on the council’s list. Unflattering as it may seem, in fact, the council was paying no attention to us. All six men had their eyes turned to the door by which we had en- tered; and now, with my faculties freed from the first spell of that terrifying room, I could note that their tensity of attitude was caused, apparently, by their expectation of some one who would shortly enter. And suddenly there fell on the door one loud knock, followed by three light taps. Inside the room there was dead silence. By Western standards, there was no movement, no display of emotion, among the Chinese; yet my sharpened senses could detect that a thrill of apprehension ran around the room, starting from the black- robed men at the head of the room, and running through the ranks of guards. The officer who had brought us in and who now stood by the door, his drawn sword in his hand, looked at the lean man in the throne as if asking instructions; and then, as the latter raised his hand, turned and shot back the bolts. For perhaps ten seconds he stood bowing into the black space left by the door’s Adventure opening; then he backed away and per- mitted the entrance of the new arrival. At that moment, every one in the room except Burns, myself, and the council, bowed low and reverently where he stood. And there stepped into the chamber a Chinese whom, from the assurance of his bearing as well as from the honor accorded, I guessed to be none other than Hop-see-Long, son of Hung- sew-Tseuen and titular head of the Tae- ping Tong. Two atterdants followed him into the room; the bronze gong somewhere outside boomed again, and the door closed behind him. Moving with great dignity, his silk robes swinging around him, he went forward as if to take his place with the council, stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, and stood there, while the bowing Tong- men straightened themselves in the midst of a heavy silence. I was staring at his back, wondering just what quality it is in some men that gives them power to dominate their fellows as he was dominating this assemblage of despera- does, when suddenly he spoke. And spoke in English! “‘Are you here?” he asked, in a tone that fell on the silence like drops of molten lead. He was looking at the lean man in the ‘throne to the left of the council—the quasi- American. ‘“‘What do you here, Mur-chison?” went on the soft voice. “Here among my people?” Again that thrill ran around the room. I glanced across at Burns, and saw that his eyes, too, were fixed on the scene with a strained intensity, and that his lips were compressed as if he, too, felt the electricity in the air. Murchison rose. . “Speak in Chinese,” he hissed, with a dart of his hand toward us. Hop-see-Long turned gravely and looked at us. Then with equal gravity he turned back to Murchison. I could see the lean man’s hands were clenched and that his fingers were clutching and loosening on themselves convulsively, as if he were in the grip of some great excitement—no trace of which, however, showed in his face. His white blood gave him his features, but his Oriental half controlled them. “I speak in Chinese only ¢o Chinese,” said Hop-see-Long advancing a half step toward him. ‘To white men I speak the language of the foreign devils, as you call them—you, COMmicooo S (©