them, James! It may be days before
I can make Liaochow.”
“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” said Mitchell.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Yes, indeed, my boy. But really I haven’t a tin to spare. They’ve
looted me of everything! Everything!”
“Pardon me, Father,” said Mitchell, going by. He reached into the tonneau and began to pull out corn willy and pears and potatoes and coffee.
Goldy was much recovered by the sight of the car and the glimpse of the food. She
looked around her with some interest. “A mission, huh? This is a pretty swell layout
you got here, Reverend.”
“But they’ve looted it!” wailed the elder Mitchell. “It was the finest mission in
the province and now look at it. Look at it!” Tears fogged his glasses and he took
them off and shined them.
“When Toughey here said the sarge’s old man was a missionary, I thought it was a big
laugh, but I guess it’s the straight goods.”
The reverend looked at her with an uncomprehending frown. “What a strange language
you speak, young lady. May I ask why you are touring about this country with my son?”
“Aw, it’s out of the bag by now,” said Goldy, sitting down on the running board and
watching Mitchell vanish into one of the small stone houses. “I was on my way from
Shanghai to Peking via the Tientsin-Pukow Railway when this war started up. Everybody
said it would be over before it began so I sat down in Teng—after the rails were ripped
up—and thought maybe I’d pick up some jack on the side. But the war got hot around Teng and I rented a car and driver to take
me to Liaochow and . . . well . . . here I am.”
“Extraordinary,” said the reverend. “And you met my son? But tell me, how is it that
an unescorted young lady would wander about China at such a time?”
“Unescorted? Are you tryin’ to pull my leg?”
“Oh, no. Good gracious, no. I . . . ah . . . would never dream of such a thing. But
why is it? Where are your parents?”
“In the Bronx, mister. In the Bronx.”
“And they allowed you to . . .”
“Nix, Reverend. I’ve supported my old man since I could do a handstand on amateur
night.”
“A . . . a what?”
“Handstand. I’m a fan dancer.”
“A fan dancer. My goodness. You mean you’re a . . . a woman of the stage? A chorus girl?”
“No, I ain’t a chorus girl. I do a solo.”
“My, my, my. First he is a Marine and then he goes about with a dancer! I knew he wouldn’t come to any good.” This seemed to stiffen the reverend’s spine and he
waddled over and tapped Toughey on the shoulder.
“Are you having any luck, my man? I mean can you repair the thing?”
“I don’t know. I’m undoing all you did,” said Toughey ungraciously. “I ain’t run into
one of these wagons for twenty years. You ought to be able to get a lot of money for
this as an antique, Reverend.”
“Oh, I assure you it was my oldest car. When the troops came through here at midnight,
they got it to run this far and could get it no further and . . . ah . . . I was never
much a hand at machinery.”
“You tellin’ me?” said Toughey. “You was tryin’ to screw the timer onto the carburetor.
Now beat it and let me alone and maybe I’ll be able to get into the guts of this thing.”
“It’s precisely a hundred and two miles to the coast,” said the reverend, retreating.
“We should be able to make it—”
“That’s not news,” cut in Goldy, staring down at her feet.
Mitchell was coming back with an armful of steaming kettles and the tools of attack.
“You mean you came from the coast?” said the reverend. “But where were you going?”
“Why, to . . . OUCH! Hey, Sarge, what the hell’s the idea? Tryin’ to bust my shins
for me?”
“Sorry,” said Mitchell. “ Pipe down for chow , Toughey.”
The reverend eyed the heaped plates with great misgivings and, watching Toughey stow
away a warehouse of food, was so visibly
I can make Liaochow.”
“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” said Mitchell.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Yes, indeed, my boy. But really I haven’t a tin to spare. They’ve
looted me of everything! Everything!”
“Pardon me, Father,” said Mitchell, going by. He reached into the tonneau and began to pull out corn willy and pears and potatoes and coffee.
Goldy was much recovered by the sight of the car and the glimpse of the food. She
looked around her with some interest. “A mission, huh? This is a pretty swell layout
you got here, Reverend.”
“But they’ve looted it!” wailed the elder Mitchell. “It was the finest mission in
the province and now look at it. Look at it!” Tears fogged his glasses and he took
them off and shined them.
“When Toughey here said the sarge’s old man was a missionary, I thought it was a big
laugh, but I guess it’s the straight goods.”
The reverend looked at her with an uncomprehending frown. “What a strange language
you speak, young lady. May I ask why you are touring about this country with my son?”
“Aw, it’s out of the bag by now,” said Goldy, sitting down on the running board and
watching Mitchell vanish into one of the small stone houses. “I was on my way from
Shanghai to Peking via the Tientsin-Pukow Railway when this war started up. Everybody
said it would be over before it began so I sat down in Teng—after the rails were ripped
up—and thought maybe I’d pick up some jack on the side. But the war got hot around Teng and I rented a car and driver to take
me to Liaochow and . . . well . . . here I am.”
“Extraordinary,” said the reverend. “And you met my son? But tell me, how is it that
an unescorted young lady would wander about China at such a time?”
“Unescorted? Are you tryin’ to pull my leg?”
“Oh, no. Good gracious, no. I . . . ah . . . would never dream of such a thing. But
why is it? Where are your parents?”
“In the Bronx, mister. In the Bronx.”
“And they allowed you to . . .”
“Nix, Reverend. I’ve supported my old man since I could do a handstand on amateur
night.”
“A . . . a what?”
“Handstand. I’m a fan dancer.”
“A fan dancer. My goodness. You mean you’re a . . . a woman of the stage? A chorus girl?”
“No, I ain’t a chorus girl. I do a solo.”
“My, my, my. First he is a Marine and then he goes about with a dancer! I knew he wouldn’t come to any good.” This seemed to stiffen the reverend’s spine and he
waddled over and tapped Toughey on the shoulder.
“Are you having any luck, my man? I mean can you repair the thing?”
“I don’t know. I’m undoing all you did,” said Toughey ungraciously. “I ain’t run into
one of these wagons for twenty years. You ought to be able to get a lot of money for
this as an antique, Reverend.”
“Oh, I assure you it was my oldest car. When the troops came through here at midnight,
they got it to run this far and could get it no further and . . . ah . . . I was never
much a hand at machinery.”
“You tellin’ me?” said Toughey. “You was tryin’ to screw the timer onto the carburetor.
Now beat it and let me alone and maybe I’ll be able to get into the guts of this thing.”
“It’s precisely a hundred and two miles to the coast,” said the reverend, retreating.
“We should be able to make it—”
“That’s not news,” cut in Goldy, staring down at her feet.
Mitchell was coming back with an armful of steaming kettles and the tools of attack.
“You mean you came from the coast?” said the reverend. “But where were you going?”
“Why, to . . . OUCH! Hey, Sarge, what the hell’s the idea? Tryin’ to bust my shins
for me?”
“Sorry,” said Mitchell. “ Pipe down for chow , Toughey.”
The reverend eyed the heaped plates with great misgivings and, watching Toughey stow
away a warehouse of food, was so visibly
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