Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China

“Don’t you be too sure of that, my lad,” said Uncle Jeff. “Your school studies have made you more business-like than you think, boy, and a chap who is good at mathematics can’t help being good and exact over a merchant’s books. Then you mean to go for us, sir?”

“Of course, uncle. When does the boat start?”

“Just hark at him!” cried Uncle Jeff. “He’s ready to be off at once.”

“But he isn’t going so soon as that,” said Stan’s father, wringing the boy’s hand warmly, and seeming loath to let it go. – “I dare say you’ll not start for three or four days. There are plenty of vessels sailing, but it isn’t every one that touches at the port from which you must go up the river in a trading-junk. But Wing will see to all that, and get you both passages in the first steamer that suits. Wing is a very good man for arrangements of that kind. In the meantime you must pack a portmanteau with just the necessaries you require – the simpler the better.”

“And before you go, my young pepper-pod, we’ll try if we can arrange for another piratical display with fireworks on the same scale as last night’s. Will that do you?”

“Now you’re beginning to laugh at me again, uncle,” said Stan in a reproachful tone.

“No, no, no, my dear boy,” cried Uncle Jeff warmly; “if I talk lightly it is only to hide what I feel. I’d been looking forward to all kinds of expeditions up-country with you, whenever your father would let two such idlers go out for a run; but now we must wait till you come back with one of our boatloads of silk and tea and dyewoods. – Here, Oliver, we’re in luck to have such a representative. – But I say, Stan, don’t take any notice of my face being so bare, but set to work and grow a respectable beard of your own.”

“I shan’t do that for years yet, uncle,” replied Stan, laughing.

“What! You don’t know, boy. It’s a wonderful climate out here for making your hair grow. Look at the Chinamen’s tails!”

“Oh, but a lot of that’s false, isn’t it?”

“In some cases, my boy, but generally it is all real; and if it were unplaited it would be longer. But don’t you imitate John Chinaman. You don’t want a long tail. You turn the hair-current from the back of your head on to your chin and let it grow there, so as to make you look big and fierce, ready for dealing with the Chinese merchants.”

“But I shall seem boyish for years to come, I’m afraid,” said Stan sadly. “I look very young.”

“And a splendid thing, too,” said Uncle Jeff. “Who wouldn’t be you, to look young and feel young? – Eh, Oliver? – Oh, you young masculine geese who are always wishing that you were men, if you only knew what you are treating with contempt, how much better it would be for you! Why, I’d give – That’ll do; I’ve done. Here, I’m coming with you to your room to go over your togs and odds and ends with you. I think I can give you a bit of advice as to what to take and what to leave behind. Perhaps, too, I can give you two or three useful things. Haven’t got a revolver of your own, I suppose?”

“No, uncle.”

“Then I’ll give you that one – mine. It hits anything, to a dead certainty, if you hold it straight. Got any fishing-tackle?”

“Yes, uncle; hooks and lines with leads.”

“That’s right. You may like to catch a few fish to make a change in your diet when it grows too regular. Wing cooks a little, but nothing like so well as Sin. – I suppose we can’t spare him to go with Stan here, can we, Oliver?”

“No; it would not be possible,” said the latter, smiling; but his voice had a suggestion of sternness in its tones as he added, “And I’m sure that Stan will be quite content to rough it for a while with Mr Blunt, and as long as he gets plain, wholesome food, will not worry himself about the cook.”

“Hear him, Stan?” cried Uncle Jeff. “That’s the way your father snubs me because I like nice things, and refuse to insult my inside by giving it any kind of hugger-mugger mess that is put before me. – Well, I confess I do like a good dinner, Oliver, and I don’t see much harm in it. Well, of course Stan will do his best for us. The Lynns always try to do their best – they can’t help it. There I come along and let’s see to your kit.”

“Don’t be in a hurry, Jeff,” said Stan’s father. “Let’s have in Wing and ask him about the return boat. He’s a very methodical fellow, and I dare say his plans are already made.”

“To be sure; let’s have him,” replied Uncle Jeff, who rose, went to the door, and called to one of the clerks to send the Chinaman in. “I dare say that he has something up his sleeve about starting. Plenty of room there for any amount of plans – eh, Stan?” he added; with the result that when the man entered, bowing and smiling in his apologetic way, Stan’s eyes immediately sought and searched the long, soft, blue silk appendages which hung well over the hands, revealing just the tips of the fingers, while from one hung out the corner of a pocket-handkerchief, and from the other the end of a fan.

A little conversation ensued, in which the Chinaman announced that he had arranged for two berths in the steamer on its return journey – either on its first, which would be in three days’ time, or, if Stan were not able to go then, on the second, which would be in a month – allowing for its sailing to the Mour River, loading up, and returning again.

“It is a very short time,” said Stan’s father, with a sigh; “but he must not wait for a month, Jeff.”

“Certainly not,” was the reply, followed by an echo of the brother’s sigh. – “You’ll have to be off, Stan, short as the time is. – As for you, Wing, your people say they hate us foreign devils, as they call us.”

“Wing no fool, Mistee Jefflee,” said the Chinaman coolly.

“I know that, Wing. You are more of a rogue than fool, as the old saying goes. But what do you mean?”

“Wing no fool ’nuff call good mastee foleign devil. That what fool say.”

“That’s true, Wing. We have always behaved well to you and paid you honestly.”

“Why Wing stay. Mastee Olivey, Mastee Jefflee good man. Topside mastee. Wing stop long time. You wantee Wing takee plop’ ca’e young Lynn?”

“Yes; help him, and fight for him if it is necessary,” said Stan’s father.

“Light. Wing bling him back some day. Mind nobody bleak him.”

“There, Stan!” cried Uncle Jeff bluffly, as he roared with laughter. “Wing’s going to take as much care of you as if you were a piece of choice china.”

“Yes; takee gleat ca’e young Lynn, young mastee. Bling him back some day.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Jeff; “but mind this, my fine fellow: if you come back some day without him, and say you couldn’t bring him because you’ve got him broken, why, then – ”

He stopped short as if to think out what punishment he would award, while the Chinaman’s face expanded in a broad grin.

“Wing not fool, Mastee Jefflee,” he said. “No come back no young Lynn, fo’ mastee killee Wing.” Then, turning very serious: “Young Lynn bloken, Wing bloken allee same. Young Lynn killee, bad man killee Wing too.”

“I see what you mean, my man,” said Stan’s father gravely. “You will fight for my son to the end.”

“No,” said the Chinaman, shaking his head and frowning; “Wing can’tee fightee. Wing tly helpee young Lynn lun away. Pl’aps bad man killee both. Plentee bad man on Mou’ Livah. Wing takee gleat ca’e young Lynn.”

“Yes; that’s all right, Wing. We always trust you.”

The Chinaman nodded, smiled, and then approached Stan, taking his hand, bending down, and holding the back against his forehead.

“There, Stan,” said his father; “you will find Wing a faithful servant, and you can trust him to help you out of difficulties, for his knowledge of his fellow-countrymen will enable him to give you warning of things which would be hidden from you. – Do you fully understand, Wing, what I am saying to my son?”

The Chinaman bowed, and was soon afterwards dismissed.

The next three days were pretty well taken up in watching the repairs of the lower part of the great warehouse, and in making the final preparations for the start to Mour River; and during that time Stan had the satisfaction of learning that the principal merchants of Hai-Hai had joined in asking for better protection of their property in the great port – a demand which was responded to by those in authority arranging for a section of the military police force being stationed nightly within easy reach of the hitherto unprotected up-river part where the Lynns’ warehouse was situated. And this was talked over on the morning when Stan and his Chinese attendant and guide stood on the deck of the steamer talking to the brothers Lynn, Uncle Jeff telling the lad that he was to take care of himself and not fidget about them, for they would be safe enough now, a pistol-shot out of a window being warning enough to bring armed assistance in a very few minutes.

“We shall be all right, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff heartily; “it is we who will have to fidget about you.”

“Yes, he is quite right, Stan, my boy,” said the lad’s father, grasping his hand warmly. “Send us a line as often as a boat loads up at the hong.”

“And you will write to me, father?” said Stan, whose heart was sinking now that the time of parting was so near.

“Of course – regularly, my boy.”

“And you too, Uncle Jeff?”

“I mean to keep a journal, Stan, and post it up regularly like a day-book, all for your benefit. There! the time will soon slip by, and you’ll be coming home again. Ah! there goes the last bell.”

“So soon?” said Stan excitedly.

His words were almost rendered inaudible by the shouts of “All for the shore!”

It was a hurried scene of confusion then for a few minutes, with repeated warm pressures of the hand in silence, and then Stan’s eyes were being strained after a boat that had suddenly seemed to glide away when the steamer quivered and throbbed and threw up a chaos of foaming water astern. In that boat the brothers Lynn were standing up waving their hats, and the little craft seemed to go faster and faster though the two rowers had not yet lowered their oars.

Stan leant over the rail of the steamer, waving his hat in return, while the boat grew less and less, his father’s features blurred and indistinct, and the great wharf seemed to be flying now while the steamer stood still. Then the boats that had taken people to the shore were all mixed up together in one patch, and the lad felt that his hat-wavings were all in vain, and that it was impossible for them to be seen.

There was something like a solid sigh in Stan’s throat, but he choked it down as he turned his head and looked inboard, to find that Wing the Chinaman, dressed now in blue cotton, was squatted down on the deck close behind him; and apparently he had been watching his actions all the time, for he nodded now and smiled compassionately in his young master’s face.

“Young Lynn velly solly go ’way?” he said.

“Of course I don’t like it – at first,” said Stan hurriedly, and feeling ready to resent the compassion of the man who was to be his servant.

“Wing not likee leave him fadee, modee, one time long time off. Don’tee mind now. Young Lynn, Wing mastee, not mind soon. You likee eatee dlinkee?”

“Not now,” said Stan shortly.

“No?” said the Chinaman, as the steamer began to rise and fall steadily. “Young Lynn go velly sickee? You likee lie down? Wing fetch bundle put undee head.”

“No, no,” said Stan quickly. “I’m not going to be ill if it keeps like this. I don’t think I should be bad if it were to come on rough.”

“No?” said Wing. “Young Lynn velly good sailor. Good like Wing. Wing velly glad. Not nicee be velly sick when steamship go up, and velly much baddee when steamship go down. Wait see.”

Wing did “wait see,” and as the steamer passed well out of the estuary, and began to run down the coast, they had a little of the vile Chinese weather that takes the form of a gale which piles the water well up and hurls it in cascades over a vessel’s bows, making her quiver through and through, and putting her officers’ seamanship well to the test. But even at the very worst, during the following day, Stan displayed no disposition to keep below, but went about the deck, holding on, and rather enjoying the grandeur of the scene; while Wing was always close at hand watching him, ready to smile in his face from time to time, and more than once gave vent to his satisfaction by saying:

“Young Lynn velly fine sailoh; ’most good as Wing. You feel leady to go down eatee big dinnee?”

“Yes,” said Stan eagerly; “this cool wind gives me a good appetite;” and he made for the cabin stairs, closely followed by his attendant, who had seen a little, careful procession going on from the galley, a sign that the midday meal was ready for such of the passengers as were ready for it.

Chapter Four

“Here! You’d better come ashore.”

Foul weather extended the voyage of the steamer to a length of five days before she reached the little port of destination, where, in the midst of a glorious change, Stan followed his conductor into a great clumsy junk, which was sailed when the windings of the fine, broad Mour River made the wind favourable, and tracked by coolies hauling upon a huge twisted bamboo cable when the breeze was adverse for a couple of days more.

The up-river trip was most enjoyable, through a highly cultivated country teeming with an industrious population and glowing with abundant crops; while the scenery was so glorious, and the novelty of the continuous panorama so great, that Stan felt a chill of disappointment at sunset one glowing evening when Wing, who had crept quietly up behind him, touched his shoulder, and stood pointing towards a village at the foot of a grand stretch of cliff, the houses rising up the beautiful terraced slope, while at the foot was a group of new-looking buildings, at the back of a wharf to which some half-dozen trading-boats were moored.

“Nang Ti,” said Wing, with a broad smile. “Young Lynn big hong full silk, full tea, full nicee piecee chop chop all along young Lynn. See big Blunt soon. Young Lynn savee big managee Blunt?”

“No, I have never seen him,” said Stan as he sheltered his eyes from the ruddy orange sunlight and scanned the place.

“Velly big stlong man. Velly good man. Velly big shoutee tongue say ‘Ho!’ and ‘Ha!’ Flighten stlong coolie man; makee wuck. Coolie go dlink much samshu, lie down, go sleepee; Blunt come behind, takee pigtail, pullee up, and kickee velly much. Makee coolie cly ‘Oh!’ Makee loll ovey and ovey, and say leady to go wuck and nevey dlink samshu, no mo’.”

“Indeed!” said Stan, who began to picture in his own mind what sort of a personage the manager in charge might be. “And then, I suppose, after being kicked for getting tipsy on samshu, the men never drink any more?”

“No,” said Wing, grinning more widely. “Velly much flighten. Nevey dlink any mo’ till next time. Poh! Gleat big silly boy, coolie. Gleat stlong man up to head – head like big baby chile. Much flighten when big Blunt come shout ‘Ho! ha!’ Big piecee man, big Blunt. Mastee managee. Young Lynn mastee managee now. Flighten big Blunt.”

“Indeed!” said Stan, smiling. “Well, we shall see.”

“Yes, young Lynn see soon. Lookee! Big Blunt.”

Wing pointed again, and following the direction of the extended index-finger, Stan saw a tall figure in white step out of one of the buildings, make its way to where a crane stretched out its diagonal arm, from which a chain with heavy ball and hooks was suspended over the river, and then stop to gaze at the junk upon whose high stern Stan and his companion were on the lookout.

Just then the tindal, or master of the junk, began to shout to his men, one of whom ran forward and began to thump a gong hanging in the bows, sending forth a booming roar whose effect was to bring a little crowd of half-naked coolies out of the buildings ashore, and three or four Europeans in white, while the crew of the junk began to swarm about the great clumsy vessel like bees.

The wind was favourable, and the great matting sails creaked and rustled, while their yards groaned as they rubbed against the bamboo masts as their sheets were tightened and pulled home, sending the heavy boat gliding up-river at an increased pace, soon getting abreast of the wharf, and then gliding along up-stream and leaving it behind.

“What does this mean?” said Stan excitedly. “Doesn’t the captain know we are to stop there?”

“Young Lynn soon see,” replied Wing. “Velly fast lun watey big stleam. Young Lynn wait. Go ’long bit way. Captain know.”

He did know perfectly how to manage his clumsy craft, which, in obedience to his signs to the steersman, was run on in a diagonal course which took it in nearer to the bank from which the cliff ran up. Then, as a few yells were uttered, some of the men seized the ropes, others got out great sweeps, there was a bang on the gong, the two great sails came rattling down upon the deck, the long sweeps began to dip as the junk’s pace grew slower and slower, till she finally stopped and began to go back, but so slowly and well-directed that she glided close alongside the wharf, whence men threw ropes; and in a wonderfully short time, considering the clumsiness of the craft and equipage, the junk was moored alongside so closely that it was possible to run a gangway aboard for the occupants to go ashore.

Stan was making ready to approach the gangway, when the figure in white approached the side, and without taking any notice of him, nodded to the Chinese captain shortly, and then turned to Wing.

“Hullo, you, sir!” he shouted in a big, vigorous voice, as if he meant himself to be heard back at the stern.

“Yes. Come back again,” said Wing.

“What made you so long?”

“Velly bad wind blow velly much indeed. Steamship no get ’long fast.”

“Humph! Bring me any letters?”

“Yes, bling big pack letteys. Got lot.”

“Come along, then, ashore; I’ve no time to waste.”

“I shall never like you,” thought Stan to himself as he waited patiently for the manager to address him in turn. But the big, keen, masterful-looking fellow did not seem even to glance in the lad’s direction, keeping his eyes fixed upon Wing, who seemed to be quite afraid of him, and did not venture to speak till the manager said loudly and sharply, as if to annoy the stranger:

“Who’s that boy you’ve got on board there?”

Wing looked troubled, and glanced first at Stan and then at the speaker.

“Well, sir, why don’t you answer?” continued the manager.

“Young Lynn. Come ’long flom Hai-Hai.”

“Oh!” said the manager gruffly. “Whose son is he – Mr Oliver’s or Mr Jeffrey’s? Oh, I remember; Mr Jeffrey isn’t married.” Then turning his eyes full upon Stan with a searching stare, he said shortly, “How do? Here! you’d better come ashore.”

Chapter Five

“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?”