"If we're hanging by that thread to eternity, G.o.d help us," I replied bitterly, for the grim humour of my brother's speech chilled my marrow.

"It _is_ a slim chance, but--hang it--a slim chance is better than none."

So we hugged that sorry comfort to our hearts and fell again into silence.

I remember that the folly, the fatuity of what we had done, oppressed me like an iron band around the skull. Common sense told me that the man who had decoyed us into Chinatown would not be satisfied with robbery. And what were the lives of two "white devils" to the owner of this den? Suffered to escape, we might inform the police. The logical conclusion of my reflections is not worth recording.

"When that scoundrel emptied the till into his pocket he made up his mind there and then never to come back," said Ajax in my ear. His thoughts had been travelling along the same lines as mine, and at about the same pace. I was convinced of this when he added slowly: "Starvation may be their game. It would be the safest to play."

Then the mad, riotous desire to fight got hold of both of us. We began to search for a weapon: anything--a stick, a stone, a bit of iron. But we found nothing.

We had never carried pistols, and our pocket knives were hardly keen or strong enough to sharpen a pencil.

Despair was again gripping me when Ajax touched my arm. We had examined the filthy floor of the room very systematically, kneeling side by side in the darkness and groping with eager fingers in the dirty sand, for there was no floor.

"I have something," he murmured. Then he seized my right hand in his left and guided it to some solid object lying deep in the sand.

The object proved to be a log. San Francisco is built on sand dunes, and in early days the houses were log-cabins for the most part, constructed of logs that two stout men could handle. After many minutes of silent but most vigorous excavation we joyfully decided that one of these very logs had come into our possession.

We worked steadily for about half an hour, pausing now and again to listen. We were practically certain that the opium fiend had gone to his pipe, and it was more than probable that the fat Mongol was no longer on guard, knowing that we were safe in a strong-box to which he alone held the key. Events proved we were wrong in both conjectures.

When the log was ready for use as a battering-ram we held a council of war, which lasted about half a minute. If there is obviously only one thing to be done, the sooner it is done the better. I grasped the forward end of our weapon, Ajax, being the heavier, took the other, and we charged that door with such hearty goodwill that at the first a.s.sault it yielded, lock and hinges being torn from the woodwork, and the door itself falling flat with a crash like the crack o' doom.

Ajax, the log, and I rolled into the next room, and as we were grovelling on the floor I saw that the room was full of Chinamen, and that our late guide was in the middle of them. The light was so bad that I was unable to see more than this. It was plain that we had to deal with an organised gang of criminals. Thugs who practised their trade as a fine art. Despite all proverbs the foreseen is what generally happens; and our amazing advent in their midst created a sort of panic whereby we took advantage. The Celestials carried knives, but they dared not use them, because the light was so dim and the room so crowded. The first thing that I saw when I scrambled to my feet was the fat dull face of the guard shining like a harvest moon, and presenting a mark for my fist as round and big as a punching-bag.

I hit him once--and that was enough. Then I began to hear the measured thud of my brother's blows, the blows of a workman who knows how to strike and where to strike.

At first they took their medicine without a whimper. Then they began to squeal and chatter as the fear of the "white devils" got hold of them. Very soon I saw "red," as our Tommies say, and remembered nothing till I came to myself in the pa.s.sage at the foot of the rotten stairs. We scurried up these and through the warren above like rabbits when the pole-cat pursueth, and finally found ourselves in the alley, where we called a halt.

"By Jove!" said Ajax, "that was a ruction."

I looked at him and burst out laughing: then he looked at me and laughed louder than I. Our clothes were in rags; our faces were red and black with blood and grime; every bone and sinew and muscle in our bodies ached and ached from the strain of strife.

"It is not time to laugh yet," said my brother; and we ran on down the alley, out into a small by-street, and straight into the arms of a policeman, who promptly arrested us.

The rest of the story was in the newspapers next day, although there was no mention of our names. When the police reached the battlefield they found one dead man--the opium-eating and smoking bar-tender. He had died--so said the doctor--of heart failure. Few whites can smoke the "pipe" with impunity, and he was not of their number. The wounded had been carried away, and, despite the strenuous endeavours of the police, not one was arrested, which proves that there is honour amongst these yellow-faced thieves, for a handful of gold-pieces and "no questions asked" was well known in Chinatown to be the price offered for any information that would lead to the capture of one or more of the gang.

When we reached our hotel we found The Babe patiently awaiting us. His complexion was slightly the worse for wear, but his eyes were as blue as ever and almost as guileless. How wide they opened when he listened to our story! How indignant he waxed when he learned that we had condemned him, the son of an archdeacon, as an opium fiend. However, he was very penitent, and returned with us to the ranch, where he dug post-holes for a couple of months, and behaved like a model babe. Ajax wrote to the archdeacon, and in due season The Babe returned to England, where he wisely enlisted as a trooper in a smart cavalry regiment, a corps that his grandfather had commanded. The pipeclay was in his marrow, and he became in time rough-riding sergeant of the regiment. I am told that soon he will be offered a commission.

This story contains two morals: both so obvious that they need not be recorded.

XIII

THE BARON

Of the many queer characters who took up land in the brush hills near our ranch none excited greater tongue-wagging than the Baron. The squatters called him the Baron. He signed his name--I had to witness his signature--Rene Bourgueil.

The Baron built himself a bungalow on a small hill overlooking a pretty lake which dried up in summer and smelled evilly. Also, he spent money in planting out a vineyard and orchard, and in making a garden. What he did not know about ranching in Southern California would have filled an encyclopaedia, but what he did know about nearly everything else filled us and our neighbours with an ever-increasing amazement and curiosity.

Why did such a man bury himself in the brush hills of San Lorenzo County?

More, he was past middle-age: sixty-five at least, not a sportsman, nor a naturalist, but obviously a _gentilhomme_, with the manners of one accustomed to the best society.

Of society, however, he spoke mordant words--

"Soziety in Europe, to-day," he said to me, shortly after his arrival, "ees a big monkey-house, and all ze monkeys are pulling each ozer's tails. I pull no tails, _moi_, and I allow no liberties to be taken wiz my person."

About a month later the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded him of what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

"_Mon cher_, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more-- _diable!_--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze old world."

"They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well-- eh?"

The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formed foot and ankle.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble, he pull my leg."

The Dumbles were neighbours of the Baron, and their sterile acres marched with his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good or better than his bond, but neither was taken at par. It was said of him that he preferred to take cash for telling a lie rather than credit for telling the truth. Dumble, as we knew, had sold the Baron one horse and saddle, one Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddle gave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees, the cow dried up in a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs to perfection, but it wouldn't incubate them.

"I use it as a stove," said the Baron.

Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, we advised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant, hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, who would be charmed to make his acquaintance.

"San Francisco? _Jamais, jamais de la vie!_"

"Come with us to Del Monte?"

"Del Monte?"

We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel standing in lovely gardens which ran down to the sea.

"_Jamais--jamais_," repeated the Baron.

"We don't like to leave you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble," said Ajax.

"You have right. I make not harmony wiz ze old man Dumble."

We went home sorely puzzled. Obviously the Baron had private reasons, and strong ones, for keeping out of San Francisco and Del Monte. And it was significant--as Ajax said to me--that a man who could talk so admirably upon art, politics, and literature never spoke a word concerning himself.

At Del Monte we happened to meet the French Consul. From him we learned that there was a certain Rene, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy.

The Chateau Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous as Chaumont or Chenonceau. The Consul possessed an _Almanack de Gotha_. From this we gleaned two more facts. Rene, Comte de Bourgueil, had two sons, and no kinsmen whatever.

"Your man," said the Consul discreetly, "must be somebody--you say he is _somebody_--well, somebody else!"