# The Luck of the Irish/Chapter 21
### CHAPTER XXI

RUTH'S abduction had not offered any great obstacles or difficulties. It required principally a certain amount of patience, and Camden could mark time with any man. The whole affair depended upon her isolation from the alert protectorate of the Irishman. And when Camden's spy reported that Ruth had gone into the markets without William, he acted at once.
The supreme irony lay in William's silence regarding his discoveries. Had he confided in Ruth, she would not have greeted Camden as an old friend or stepped into the rickshaw he had provided for her. That William suspected anything was furthest from his thoughts. For the boatswain, for some reason known to himself, had not repeated his conversation with William.
Thus, when the jackal approached Ruth he did so confidently, and naturally there was nothing in her attitude to disturb this confidence. Indeed, she greeted him cordially. Where had he been? How long had he been in Singapore? And where was he going from there? The Ajax was sailing in about an hour, and she had been hunting the Chinese markets for mangosteens. She exhibited a meager dozen of the luscious fruit, each pendent ​from a long fiber thread much used by the Chinese fruit-sellers.
"Pshaw!" said Camden. "I wish you'd let me guide you into the markets again. I know where you can get bushels of the fruit for almost nothing."
"How long will it take?" she asked, eagerly.
"A quarter of an hour at the longest."
So Ruth handed her mangosteens to the spinsters, took Camden's rickshaw while he engaged another, and the two of them wheeled away. Now Ruth possessed a good idea of locality; and it presently occurred to her that her rickshaw boy was not going in the direction of the markets, which lay eastward. She touched the boy on the shoulder with her sunshade. Instead of turning his head to inquire what she wished, he broke into the full run which is almost as fast as a horse ordinarily trots. He would be able to maintain this gait for an hour or more. The Chinese in Singapore are the sturdiest in the world.
Ruth became alarmed. The boy was patently running away with her. She looked back to find that Camden had stopped and was arguing furiously with his boy. Next she saw him jump from the rickshaw and run after her. He stumbled and fell, and by the time he was on his feet again there was no possible chance of his overtaking her. He stood in the middle of the dusty road, apparently bewildered and undecided; and this picture was the last she ever saw of him, for her boy shot up a side street. All this was very good acting ​on Camden's part. If the abduction turned out abortive, Ruth would retain the impression of his efforts to come to her assistance and he would be free to act again.
Ruth began to beat the rickshaw boy lustily; in fact, she broke her sunshade over his head and shoulders without obtaining the least satisfaction. Not having even a shadowy idea of what was meant by this peculiar conduct of the boy, a mild coma laid hold of her. The reality became a disordered dream. What was left of the cover of her sunshade flapped in the rushing wind, and the broken ribs beat a thin tattoo on the thills of the rickshaw. She might easily have slipped over the back of the vehicle, but the idea never occurred to her until too late to serve.
It was now half after three, and the Ajax sailed at four! Still she sat there motionless, staring stupidly at the broad, yellow, heaving back of the Chinaman. Scarcer grew the houses and bungalows; they were leaving the town behind. Once she saw a Sikh policeman; but she never thought to raise her arms to attract his attention.
About half an hour later the boy stopped in front of what appeared to be a low native tavern. It stood back from the road in the shade of some bamboos. Both Malays and Chinese were grouped about on the veranda, some smoking and others drinking tea.
She jumped from the rickshaw and attempted to run, but her legs were too numb. The rickshaw boy laughed silently, grasped her by the arms, and ​propelled her irresistibly into the tavern, where he calmly locked her up in a room whose walls were lined with tousled bunks, beside which stood small stands littered with the paraphernalia of the opium-smoker.
A sound, coming from far off, cleared the stupor out of her head. It was the bassoon-like whistle of the Ajax. She was being left behind! She ran to the door, shook the knob, beat upon the panels until her knuckles began to bleed. Left behind! What did it mean? What could it mean? The rickshaw boy had not taken her hand-bag or purse. He had simply run away with her and locked her up. The motive was not robbery. She groped into a thousand channels for some clue to this amazing adventure, but there was no solution anywhere. She was being left behind, and almost penniless. It was maddening!
Some time after sunset they came for her, a huge Chinaman and a slim, lithe Malay. They robbed her of her hand-bag and purse. The Chinaman thrust his hand down her neck and tore loose the chamois bag. They then proceeded to bind her hands behind her back. Cloths were tied over her eyes and mouth. She submitted passively; she had sense enough to appreciate the utter folly of struggling. The Chinaman swung her over his shoulder and trotted down-stairs. Presently she knew that she was being put into a closed carriage.
She was in a peculiar state of mind. She dared not think; she must let herself drift, drift; that, or go mad with anxiety. She even tried to con​vince herself that she was acting in a moving-picture drama of some kind. She forced these pictures into her thoughts, and others; she called up reserve after reserve, but they were not strong enough for the onslaughts of terror. What were they going to do with her? Where were they taking her? What did it all mean?
The ride took something more than an hour. There was at no time any indication that her captors were in a hurry. The horse jogged along. When the carriage came to the final halt there was a wait of four or five minutes. Then she felt the muscular arms of the Chinaman again. She was being carried into a house. The air was strong with the stale smoke of Turkish cigarettes.
"Take her up to room twelve." It was a woman's voice. "I'll send Saki San up with food later."
A few minutes after Ruth was set down and the knots at her wrists were loosened. A door closed and a key turned in the lock. She dragged her hands free and tore off the bandages. It was dark, but she knew that she was in a bedroom.
There were two windows, rear and side. The one in the rear overlooked a small back yard in the center of which stood a kind of outhouse. A Chinaman was lounging in the doorway, smoking his little metal pipe. Behind him other Chinese moved in a film of blue vapor.
The side window was less than six feet from the next house. She stared into the velvet blackness of the window opposite. Even as she gazed a ​match flared. Soon a candle flickered and revealed a woman in a low-necked dress. A dead cigarette hung pendent from her lips. A shadow passed between her and the light. The shadow was a man. The woman drew the shade.
Ruth leaned against the casing of her window; she was sick with horror. She had no illusions regarding yonder brief picture. A monstrous faintness threatened her, but she clung to her senses desperately. All the strength, all the cunning and invention God had given her she would need.
She took off her hat—a pith helmet—and hid the two steel hat-pins in the side of her skirt where she could reach them handily. Then she sought the door, but without hope. As she expected, it was locked on the outside. There was no inside bolt. She could not get out, but any one could get in.
She returned to the side window. By pressing her cheek closely to the left wall she was able to secure a glimpse of the street in which the house stood. Across the way she saw a huge Chinese lantern swaying in the mild night wind. Upon this lantern was a rudely painted number.
She heard footsteps in the hall, and she stepped back behind the bed, into the corner. The door opened and a gross woman, with thick, dry, blond hair and deeply rouged cheeks, entered with an oil-lamp. She peered around the room until she discovered Ruth. Then she set the lamp on a stand in the far corner.
​"Nobody's going to hurt you," said the woman, indifferently. "Have you any idea where you are?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well, it's Malay Street, all right. Now, don't waste your breath calling out. When there's no tourists in town, the Sikh police don't bother to watch us carefully. And if they do hear you they'll think it's the usual racket. If you're sensible you'll be allowed the freedom of this bedroom. If you kick up, why, I'll have to tie you. You needn't look so scared. You won't see any men, if that's worrying you."
"Are you an American?"
"There's no nationality in this business," said the woman, shrugging. "And don't waste your breath asking questions. They won't be answered."
"How … how long are you going to keep me here? I have no money."
"I don't know how long. That depends upon you. When they come for you you'll find out what you want to know. I'll send food up to you. But no nonsense. It won't do you a bit of good."
"Do you want money?"
"You've just told me you hadn't any."
The woman went out, shut the door, and locked it. Ruth sat down on the bed, fingering the glass heads of her hat-pins. If any one so much as touched her, she would strike to kill. If only her body would cease its idiotic trembling! … They! Who were they who would come for her?
​Her hell began about the same time as William's, and there was but little difference in character. The sum was terror and suspense.
Not in the slightest way did Ruth associate Camden with her dreadful plight. She was positive that even now he was sending out alarms. Nor did Colburton enter her thoughts. She had reached the opinion that, sensibly recognizing the uselessness of pursuing her, he had gone back to New York.
She had often heard and read of the moral lawlessness of white men in the Far East. Some vile scoundrel had noticed her in the streets. Well, she could die.
After a while she slid to her knees and prayed.
The prayer was interrupted by the door opening again. She sprang up defensively. But the new-comer was only a pretty little Japanese girl with a tray upon which lay toast, fruit, and tea. She set the tray down on the center-table and courtesied cheerfully.
"I spig you lig English," she said, which Ruth readily interpreted as "I speak English like you."
"Do you like money?" asked Ruth.
"Umhm. I lig make mo-nee."
"Will you go to the American consulate and tell them Miss Warren is here? They will make you rich."
The Japanese girl laid her finger on her lips and nodded toward the door. This gesture conveyed to Ruth that some one was on guard outside in the hall, the blond woman probably.
​"No can do. She keel me I spig outside. No can do. I lig you. You no same's oth' women." Saki San approached Ruth and inspected her with that frank and childish curiosity of the Japanese. She giggled. "Velly nice. I come topside two time day. Tea? Coffee?"
As Ruth did not answer, she bobbed up and down several times. Then she went to the door in that slipshod manner which is charming in the Orient and slovenly elsewhere.
Ruth sat up in a chair all night, and toward morning she fell asleep from exhaustion. So long as she remained a prisoner in this room she was determined not to sleep at night or to undress. She was not wholly ignorant of this phase of life, and resolved to steal what sleep she could during the day. There was always something in the newspapers; and she recalled that life among these outcasts began at sundown and ended at sunrise.
The first day was very hot and very quiet. It rained a little. It is always raining a little in Singapore.
There were combs and brushes on the bureau, but she did not touch them, much as she longed to.
Her breakfast consisted of eggs, tea, and toast. She was not hungry, but she knew that only by eating could she keep her strength.
The little Japanese girl, who was really as pretty as a doll, noticed the snarled and tumbled hair of the prisoner. When she came in with the evening meal she carried a new brush and comb.
"These new. Chinaman buy 'em shop over ​town. Belong you. Me Saki San. Me comb hair?"
Ruth could not help smiling. Impulsively she gave the brush and comb to Saki San and sat down in a chair. The Japanese girl fussed over her for an hour, and somehow her touch soothed the raw nerves. But Saki San would not talk. She never brought into this room any of the secrets of the house.
"You sleep night?"
Ruth did not know whether to say yes or no. It might be a trap. She compromised by shrugging.
"You sleep day. Watch night. Maybe so no man catch um sleep." Saki San did not smile as she offered this advice. "Hon'able lady un'stan'?"
"Yes."
Saki San, which was a nickname, knew absolutely nothing about morals. From her point of view the life she lived was proper, if arduous. Her parents away off in Saki, Japan, owed money and regularly she sent home half of her eranings. But instinctively she did know that this strange, beautiful white woman saw things differently.
Saki San had known many white women. They cried a good deal when alone, drank deeply, used all manner of drugs, and sometimes prayed wildly to a strange God Saki San had never heard of until the white man took her from the segregated district in Tokio and eventually left her here in Singapore. For two years now she had been com​panion to these white women who called themselves lost. She could not understand what that word meant unless it was that they could not find their way back home.
Four days dragged themselves by. There was scarce an hour in which Ruth did not think of her Irishman. Oh, he would not forsake her; he would find her. But he must hurry! hurry! Her whimsical blue-eyed Irishman, tender and thoughtful and kind! What if he did lack polish? His mind was crystal and his heart was gold; and he wore his cynicism as a chestnut wears its mistletoe, a false growth grafted upon him without his leave; whom children loved and old men grew fond of. No, he would not forsake her.