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

doesn’t know I’m coming,” Calvin said; “but I’m an old acquaintance of his. I can assure you that he won’t object. I’ve come all the way from New York on a piece of business with him.”
    For a second Captain Hamby’s eyes maintained that curious, glassy look, and then they twinkled and his smile grew broader.
    â€œThat’s fine,” said Captain Hamby, “fine. Any friend of Gilbreth’s a friend of mine. Capital chap, the Doctor. The more the merrier, Gates. Just leave everything to me. By jove, that’s awkward,” Captain Hamby paused and thrust his hands in his coat pockets, “I must have left my fags in my old kit bag and I’m perishing for a smoke. Neither of you two have a cigarette, have you?”
    The question was casual enough, but there was nothing casual about Captain Hamby’s light gray eyes. In the instant’s hesitation that followed Calvin saw Miss Dillaway steal a sideways glance at him.
    â€œYou have a cigarette, haven’t you, Gates?” she said.
    Calvin produced a paper package from his pocket. A little line appeared between Captain Hamby’s light eyebrows and disappeared again.
    â€œThanks,” he said, “awfully. Deuced careless of me to forget my fags. Now you leave everything to me, I know the ropes here. I’ve got boys to handle the bags. We’ll get through the customs before you can say knife. I’ll get three compartments—Chinese sleeping train. Right? Not as good as a wagon-lit , but it’s clean. Just leave everything to me.”
    Captain Hamby waved his hand toward the rear of the train in a broad, expansive gesture.
    â€œBack there in Manchukuo—just you understand this,—” his red face wrinkled in a pantomime—“everything is dead serious; but over here—” the wrinkles curved into an exaggerated grin—“over here everything is funny, always something funny in China. I ought to know. I’ve been here long enough. Just remember to keep smiling—smile, smile, smile.”
    Although the hard nasal voice and the pronunciation puzzled Calvin, he was beginning to comprehend that Captain Hamby was a part of that new country and as much in keeping with it as the native population. Captain Hamby was a type which Calvin had heard casually mentioned, but one which he had never seen—the Old China Hand. The analysis of Miss Dillaway went even further.
    â€œAustralian, aren’t you, Captain Hamby?” she asked.
    â€œYou win, Miss Dillaway,” Captain Hamby said. “Been around a bit, haven’t you, to pick me out so easy? Just a noisy Aussie, and that’s about the same as American, isn’t it? We better pop off the train now. Just leave everything to me.”
    Captain Hamby jerked a window open with a quick heave of his broad shoulders and began shouting directions to the station platform in a curious mixture of English and Chinese.
    â€œHere come the boys,” he said. “The bags will be out in a minute. All you have to do is get on the other train and wait. I’ll take you.”
    â€œWe’re certainly glad to see you,” said Miss Dillaway.
    â€œRighto,” said Captain Hamby.
    Two minutes later they were moving across the train shed with Captain Hamby just beside them, leading a line of four porters carrying their luggage. They were with a man who knew the ropes and who knew how to arrange everything in a way that was breezy and bullying and yet good-natured.
    â€œJust jolly the Chinese,” Captain Hamby said. “Every Chinese is a perfect gentleman. Over there—very grim; over here—comic opera.”
    With Captain Hamby no great effort seemed necessary. He exchanged a few sharp sentences with the Chinese Customs and then, before Calvin could even understand what formality had taken place, they were in three compartments of the Peiping train with all their baggage