Mr. Moto Is So Sorry by John P. Marquand Page A

to him that he had acquired an added importance and that there was some unspoken sort of understanding.
    â€œPlease,” the train boy said slowly when it was growing dark, as though he had learned his words from a phrase book, “you get off train at Shan-hai-kuan and take sleeping train. Baggage goes to customs. Thank you please.”
    The sun was down and the world was gray and then it was black, and the train moved for a long while through a dark country where there was hardly ever a gleam of light. It was after nine in the evening before the train reached Shan-hai-kuan. Even if he had not known that the wall was there, it was plain that they had passed from a land of order to a land of noise and confusion. Whistles were blowing. Porters and station employees and food vendors ran beside the train, shouting and waving their arms. The whole train shed was a babble of high voices and laughter and escaping steam. Calvin Gates stared uncertainly through the smoky window.
    â€œIt looks as though everyone outside has gone crazy,” he said.
    Just as the train was coming to a stop and just as he had turned from the window, he saw a man of his own race thrust his way through the crowd and swing aboard. He had a glimpse of a red face and of a trench coat like his own, and then an instant later he saw the face again. A wiry, stocky European carrying a riding crop strode down the aisle toward them with a curious rolling gait. His face was ruddy from the out-of-doors, of a deep color that made his grayish eyes seem very light. He pushed past two Japanese businessmen who were starting for the door and caught sight of Calvin and Miss Dillaway.
    â€œHello, hello,” he called. His voice was nasal and metallic and he jerked off his felt hat. “Is this by any chance Miss Dillaway?”
    â€œYes, it is,” Miss Dillaway answered. “How do you know my name?”
    She must have been as surprised as Calvin Gates to hear her name called in that remote place. The stranger’s hard red face crinkled into a smile and he pulled a letter from his pocket.
    â€œThat’s fine,” he said, “fine. So you’re the little artist lady, are you? Here’s a letter form Dr. Gilbreth explaining who I am. Read it any time. My name is Hamby, miss, Captain Sam Hamby, Dardanelles, Messines Ridge. Long time ago wasn’t it? Professional soldier, miss, with the Cavalry of the Prince of Ghuru Nor. I was coming down from up there on business and Dr. Gilbreth asked me to pop over here and meet you. He thought it might be easier for you. There’s a spot of mix-up over in Mongolia. Don’t worry, things are always mixed up in China.”
    Miss Dillaway read the note which he handed her and gave the red-faced stranger a smile of quick relief.
    â€œWell,” she said, “that explains everything. It’s awfully kind of you, Captain Hamby, and I won’t say two greenhorns like us don’t need help. This is Mr. Gates, who is going up there with me, Mr. Calvin Gates from New York.”
    The wrinkles around Captain Hamby’s lips grew deeper, and though he smiled his face grew watchful, and his eyes looked still and glassy. They reminded Calvin of the eyes of a sailor or a hunter that were accustomed to stare across great distances.
    â€œWell, well,” said Captain Hamby, “funny that Gilbreth never spoke of you. The word was that only Miss Dillaway was traveling up to Ghuru Nor.”
    There was something in the other’s face that Calvin did not like, although he could not tell just why—something still and something watchful. His curiosity, though it was natural, aroused in Calvin a sudden resentment. Through the thoughtfulness of Dr. Gilbreth, Captain Hamby had come to take Miss Dillaway from him; and he had not wanted it just yet. It gave him a strange, unreasoning pang of jealousy which increased when he saw that Miss Dillaway looked happy and relieved.
    â€œDr. Gilbreth