Rice Papers. Hugh Leigh Norris

THE sun had shone brilliantly and torridly all day over the mud-laden river, the surrounding paddy-fields, and the copper-coloured backs of the sweating Chinese boatmen as they laboured at their yuloes in sampen and junk. It had, indeed, been a hot day even for up-river, and the extreme humidity of the atmosphere after the rains made the heat felt in every pore of the skin, so that even the half-naked steersmen of the junks sweated at their rudders.

But now the sun is setting. On all sides can be heard the rattle of the winches and the creaking as the heavy mat sails slide down the mast of the junks, a splash as the stone-weighted wooden anchor drops over the bows, and each junk in time swings to its rattan-twisted cable in the pea-soup known as fresh water in Chinese rivers. The heavy damp air is suddenly rent by a bugle note which signals the fact that the flag which represents the sovereignty of King Edward the Seventh is being hauled down till eight a.m. the next day on board the gunboat lying in the muddy river.

A careful study of the illustrated weekly papers will give us a fair knowledge of the appearance of the average naval officer, and we shall also gather from this same source that when he’s not rushing about after niggers with a field-gun, he’s employed attending balls at various Government Houses, or talking to beautiful ladies on a huge electric-lighted quarter-deck, what time the moon calmly shines on some picturesque Mediterranean harbour.

Undoubtedly our friends have experienced all these social joys in their time, but at present they are far removed from such soothing influences. Still, we have to deal with a gunboat of some pretensions, one wherein a gossamer vest and white trousers are not considered de rigueur for dinner. The wardroom is much as others in a “bug trap,” but it has one great adornment, a punkah, which is pulled during meal hours by a diminutive and quite expressionless “makee learn.” The lights are burning and the table laid for four, the “makee learn” is waiting by the pantry hatch ready to pull the punkah, and, on the entry of an officer, comes in and, sitting on a stool, begins to violently jerk the rope leading through a brass sheave to the small punkah which flaps away some large and well-fed bluebottles.

The officer is smoking a cigarette, and dressed in white duck trousers, a soft white shirt, and white mess-jacket, all of which goes to prove that we are in a smart ship. He strolls idly over to the thermometer hanging on the bulkhead and observes that the mercury stands at 84°. He idly places the burning end of his cigarette near the bulb of the thermometer and watches the mercury rise to 95°, while the “makee learn” violently agitates the punkah. Having performed this simple operation he sits in a cane chair, and another officer enters and flings himself on a settee without any remark.

“Good evening, Pill,” says the first officer. “Pretty hot to-night.”

“Don’t agree with you,” remarks the other. “But, anyway, I’m open to bet it isn’t ninety.”

“All right,” says the Chief, for such we will call the person who first entered the wardroom. “Bet you a sherry and bitters it is.”

The surgeon jumps up and looks at the thermometer, then leans over the table, rings the electric bell, and sings out, “Ah Hing, two sherries and bitters!”

The bitters are brought in and disposed of, and then another officer comes in.

“Nice and cool to-night, Pill,” he remarks.

“Don’t agree with you,” says the surgeon.

“But I think it’s much cooler,” remarks the navigator, for that is the rating of the new-comer.

“Well, I’ll bet you it’s over ninety,” says the surgeon.

“What’ll you bet?” says the navigator.

“Oh, a cocktail, to-morrow forenoon. Then look for yourself,” says the surgeon.

The navigator strolls over to the thermometer and says, “Eighty-eight.”

“Be blowed for a yarn!” says the surgeon. “Let’s look.” But on consulting the mercury column he finds it stands at eighty-eight, so muttering a curse that everybody and everything is against him to-day he sits down and shouts to Ah Hing to bring some chow-chop-chop.

“Hurry up, Ah Hing!” says “No. 1” as he comes in. “Hullo, my pippins! What cher! Well, Pill, fisherman’s luck, eh? Shot anything?”

“Yes,” says Pill; “darned sight too much!”

“Well, tell us all about it. You’ve been grubbin’ round the Chinese city I suppose, Chief, lookin’ for curios?”

“Yes,” remarks the engineer officer; “and got two bits of blue and white china and a confoundedly ancient-looking joss.”

Ah Hing brings in the soup, and “No. 1” says: “Well, doc, you might tell your adventures to the poor devil who’s had nothing to do but stop aboard the ship in this confounded stinking river.”

Thus appealed to the surgeon begins—

“A day like this is enough to break any man’s heart. I haven’t the pluck now to open a jackpot on four kings, feeling certain somebody’d hold four aces and the joker against me. As you know, we two went shooting, and left the Chief to grub about the native city for curios. When we landed we hired two coolies to carry the drinks and chow, which they slung on a pole between them, and off we went to the right among the paddy-fields. There wasn’t a thing in the paddy except frogs, snakes, and cockie-ollie birds, so we went up towards the hills. Nothing to be found there, but after passing a small village we got into some scrub and long grass, when up got a quail. It flew to my left rear, and I let him have one barrel. Then he passed right behind me, and I let him have the other barrel, the contents of which went smack into the lunch-basket and blew it to bits. In the excitement I’d never noticed that our coolies were only a few yards behind me. There was instantly no end of a hullabaloo, and one coolie lay on the ground kicking and rubbing himself furiously, what time both of them kept up a most damnable

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