It was charming. At their backs they had the huge, fantastic screen, brave and fine with its coat of gold. In front, through the glass-paned valves of a pair of folding doors, they could see the roofs of the houses beyond the Plaza, and beyond these the blue of the bay with its anchored ships, and even beyond this the faint purple of the Oakland shore. On either side of these doors, in deep alcoves, were divans with mattings and head-rests for opium smokers. The walls were painted blue and hung with vertical Cantonese legends in red and silver, while all around the sides of the room small ebony tables alternated with ebony stools, each inlaid with a slab of mottled marble. A chandelier, all a-glitter with tinsel, swung from the centre of the ceiling over a huge round table of mahogany.
And not a soul was there to disturb them. Below them, out there around the old Plaza, the city drummed through its work with a lazy, soothing rumble. Nearer at hand, Chinatown sent up the vague murmur of the life of the Orient. In the direction of the Mexican quarter, the bell of the cathedral knolled at intervals.
The sky was without a cloud and the afternoon was warm.
Condy was inarticulate with the joy of what he called their "discovery." He got up and sat down. He went out into the other room and came back again. He dragged up a couple of the marble-seated stools to the table. He took off his hat, lighted a cigarette, let it go out, lighted it again, and burned his fingers. He opened and closed the folding-doors, pushed the table into a better light, and finally brought Travis out upon the balcony to show her the "points of historical interest" in and around the Plaza.
"There's the Stevenson memorial ship in the centre, see; and right there, where the flagstaff is, General Baker made the funeral oration over the body of Terry. Broderick killed him in a duel--or was it Terry killed Broderick? I forget which. Anyhow, right opposite, where that pawnshop is, is where the Overland stages used to start in '49. And every other building that fronts on the Plaza, even this one we're in now, used to be a gambling-house in bonanza times; and, see, over yonder is the Morgue and the City Prison."They turned back into the room, and a great, fat Chinaman brought them tea on Condy's order. But besides tea, he brought dried almonds, pickled watermelon rinds, candied quince, and "China nuts."Travis cut the cheese into cubes with Condy's penknife, and arranged the cubes in geometric figures upon the crackers.
"But, Condy," she complained, "why in the world did you get so many crackers? There's hundreds of them here--enough to feed a regiment. Why didn't you ask me?""Huh! what? what? I don't know. What's the matter with the crackers? You were dickering with the cheese, and the man said, 'How many crackers?' I didn't know. I said, 'Oh, give me a quarter's worth!'""And we couldn't possibly have eaten ten cents' worth! Oh, Condy, you are--you are--But never mind, here's your tea. I wonder if this green, pasty stuff is good."They found that it was, but so sweet that it made their tea taste bitter. The watermelon rinds were flat to their Western palates, but the dried almonds were a great success. Then Condy promptly got the hiccoughs from drinking his tea too fast, and fretted up and down the room like a chicken with the pip till Travis grew faint and weak with laughter.
"Oh, well," he exclaimed aggrievedly--"laugh, that's right! Idon't laugh. It isn't such fun when you've got 'em yoursel'--HULP."
"But sit down, for goodness' sake! You make me so nervous. You can't walk them off. Sit down and hold your breath while you count nine. Condy, I'm going to take off my gloves and veil.
What do you think?"
"Sure, of course; and I'll have a cigarette. Do you mind if Ismoke?"
"Well, what's that in your hand now?"
"By Jove, I have been smoking! I--I beg your pardon. I'm a regular stable boy. I'll throw it away."Travis caught his wrist. "What nonsense! I would have told you before if I'd minded.""But it's gone out!" he exclaimed. "I'll have another."As he reached into his pocket for his case, his hand encountered a paper-covered volume. and he drew it out in some perplexity.
"Now, how in the wide world did that book come in my pocket?" he muttered, frowning. "What have I been carrying it around for?
I've forgotten. I declare I have."
"What book is it?"
"Hey? book?...h'm," he murmured, staring.
Travis pounded on the table. "Wake up, Condy, I'm talking to you," she called.
"It's 'Life's Handicap,'" he answered, with a start; "but why and but why have I--""What's it about? I never heard of it," she declared.
"You never heard of 'Life's Handicap'?" he shouted; "you never heard--you never--you mean to say you never heard--but here, this won't do. Sit right still, and I'll read you one of these yarns before you're another minute older. Any one of them--open the book at random. Here we are--'The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes'; and it's a stem-winder, too."And then for the first time in her life, there in that airy, golden Chinese restaurant, in the city from which he hasted to flee, Travis Bessemer fell under the charm of the little spectacled colonial, to whose song we all must listen and to whose pipe we all must dance.
