The other nodded gloomily. On the instant his face had fallen as
impassive as that of the Chinese boy who stood behind his chair,
straight, rigid, like a waxen image of Gravity in a blue gown.--"Yes, of
sorts. Young fool. Scrapes. Debt. Out to Orient. Same old story. More
debt. Trust the firm to encourage that! Debt and debt and debt. Tied up
safe. Transfer. Finish! Never go Home."--He rose with a laugh and an
impatient gesture.--"Come on. Might as well take in the club as to sit
here talking rot."
Outside the gate of the compound, coolies crouching round a lantern
sprang upright and whipped a pair of sedan-chairs into position.
Heywood, his feet elevated comfortably over the poles, swung in the
lead; Rudolph followed, bobbing in the springy rhythm of the long
bamboos. The lanterns danced before them down an open road, past a few
blank walls and dark buildings, and soon halted before a whitened front,
where light gleamed from the upper story.
"Mind the stairs," called Heywood. "Narrow and beastly dark."
As they stumbled up the steep flight, Rudolph heard the click of
billiard balls. A pair of hanging lamps lighted the room into which he
rose,--a low, gloomy loft, devoid of comfort.
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