Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (147 page)
Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
But
suddenly
he
awoke.
He
had
dreamed
of
that
open
grave
and the
coolies
digging
leisurely.
He
was
sure
he
had
seen
them.
It
was absurd
to
say
it
was
an
hallucination
when
he
had
seen
them
with
his own
eyes.
Then
he
heard
the
rattle
of
the
night
watchman
going
his rounds.
It
broke
upon
the
stillness
of
the
night
so
harshly
that
it
made him
jump
out
of
his
skin.
And
then
terror
seized
him.
He
felt
a
horror of
the
winding
multitudinous
streets
of
the
Chinese
city,
and
there was
something
ghastly
and
terrible
in
the
convoluted
roofs
of
the temples
with
their
devils
grimacing
and
tortured.
He
loathed
the smells
that
assaulted
his
nostrils.
And
the
people.
Those
myriads
of blue
clad
coolies,
and
the
beggars
in
their
filthy
rags,
and
the
merchants
and
the
magistrates,
sleek,
smiling,
and
inscrutable,
in
their long
black
gowns.
They
seemed
to
press
upon
him
with
menace. He
hated
the
country.
China.
Why
had
he
ever
come?
He
was
panic-stricken
now.
He
must
get
out.
He
would
not
stay
another
year,
another
month.
What
did
he
care
about
Shanghai?
"Oh,
my
God,"
he
cried,
"if
I
were
only
safely
back
in
England."
He
wanted
to
go
home.
If
he
had
to
die
he
wanted
to
die
in
England.
He
could
not
bear
to
be
buried
among
all
these
yellow
men, with
their
slanting
eyes
and
their
grinning
faces.
He
wanted
to
be buried
at
home,
not
in
that
grave
he
had
seen
that
day.
He
could never
rest
there.
Never.
What
did
it
matter
what
people
thought? Let
them
think
what
they
liked.
The
only
thing
that
mattered
was to
get
away
while
he
had
the
chance.
He
got
out
of
bed
and
wrote
to
the
head
of
the
firm
and
said
he had
discovered
he
was
dangerously
ill.
He
must
be
replaced.
He
could not
stay
longer
than
was
absolutely
necessary.
He
must
go
home
at once.
They
found
the
letter
in
the
morning
clenched
in
the
taipan's
hand. He
had
slipped
down
between
the
desk
and
the
chair.
He
was
stone dead.
From
The Great Fog,
by H. F. Heard, reprinted by permission of
The Vanguard Press and Cassell & Co. Ltd.
Trie
Rousini
f Mr. Brad
By H. F.
HEARD
M
r.
bradegar was not alarmed, that would have been an exag-
geration,
and
a
disparaging
exaggeration—which
is,
in
itself,
so
unusual as
to
awaken
doubt.
But
Mr.
Bradegar
had
been
waked
in
an
unusual way,
in
a
way
which—he
would
have
been
quite
happy
to
allow
it,
had there
been
anyone
to
make
happy
by
the
allowance—might
well
have been
alarming
to
a
more
highly
strung
nature.
Indeed,
the
trouble about
this
sudden
summons
back
from
dreams
to
reality
was
that Mr.
Bradegar
was
quite
at
a
loss
to
know
what
it
was
that
had
summoned
him.
It
was
not
"rosy-fingered
dawn."
A
glance
hadn't
shown much—indeed,
had
shown
so
little
that
it
seemed
clear
that
dawn wasn't
in
the
offing
and
would
not
be
for
a
long
while;
otherwise
you ought
to
see
where
"the
casement
grows
a
glimmering
square."
No —if
he
had
his
bearings
right—it
is
hard
to
be
sure
when
you
are waked
too
quickly—but
to
the
best
of
his
knowledge,
the
window
was where
he
was
looking,
and
there
was
no
suspicion
of
a
glimmering square
about
it.
Well,
ears
might
be
better
than
eyes.
With
the
fingers of
his
upper
hand,
which,
with
its
under
fellow,
had
been
folded
near his
face
in
the
attitude
of
fetal
humility,
which
we
resume
when
we would
rest,
Mr.
Bradegar
got
ready
to
push
back
the
edge
of
the
sheet, under
which
he
lay
up
to
the
ears—then
paused.
What
was
that?
A
rustle?
No,
it
was
only
the
small
sound
made as
his
too-vigilant
ear
moved
on
its
own,
obeying
an
impulse
almost as
ancient
as
his
sleeping
pose,
trying
to
cock
itself,
but
only
succeeding
now
in
producing
a
small
sound—the
sound
of
its
own
movement against
the
sheet
edge—instead
of
detecting
an
external
disturbance. He
must
have
his
ears
clear
if
his
eyes
wouldn't
work.
There,
now
he was
unlapped.
It
was
his
good
ear,
too;
so
he
must
be
lying
on
his
left side!
so,
again,
he
must
be
right
about
the
window
and,
further,
about the
time,
within
limits.
It
was
his
good
ear,
because
he
could
hear
the discreet
pulse
of
the
mantel
clock.
Yes,
he
was
now
quite
awake
and had
himself
well
arranged
in
relation
to
his
whereabouts.
He
noticed, too,
that
his
heart
was
beating
more
slowly.
He
reflected
on
this. "I
must
have
had
a
start
in
my
sleep.
Perhaps
it
was
only
a
dream."
He
worked
the
back
of
his
neck
a
little
deeper
into
the
pillow
until he
was
quite
comfortable,
gave
up
staring
into
the
dark,
but
still
left his
"weather
ear"
uncovered.
Half
over
on
his
back,
he
could
keep
a casual
watch
until
sleep
relieved
him.
It
evidently
was
closer
at
hand than
he
thought,
for
in
no
perceptible
length
of
time
he
found
himself
of
the
opinion
that
he
was
out
in
the
street,
just
about
to
cross, when
a
small
dog
ran
in
front
of
him,
turned
its
head,
and
barked sharply,
"Wake
up!"
Mr.
Bradegar
obeyed
instantly
and,
as
instantly, he
was
aware
that
the
same
whatever-it-was
that
had
first
startled
him to
wakefulness
must
have
done
it
again.
His
car
was
still
uncovered; the
window
still
as
noncommittal;
only
the
mantel
clock,
after
a
soft preliminary
whirring,
began
to
strike—if
strike
is
not
too
emphatic
a word
for
its
perfect
night-nurse
manner.
But
it
hadn't
much
to
say: "One,
Two."
Mr.
Bradegar
also
noticed
again
that
his
heart
had
evidently
caught
on
to
this
thing
even
before
it
had
waked
him.
It
was slackening
down
from
a
more
rapid
pace.
"Dormio,
sed
cor
.
.
."
he quoted
to
himself.