The Spectator., 1915-01-29
CHAPTER 1.
East Is East.

the west bank of the muddy, turbu- lent Irrawaddy, remembered by man only so often as it was necessary for the flotilla boat to call for paddy, visiting commissioner anxious to get away or family homeward bound On the east side of the river, over there, was a semblance of civilization. That is to say, men wore white linen. avoided murder, and frequently paid their gambling debts. But on this west side stood wilderness, not the kind one reads about as being eventu- ally conquered by white men; no, the real, grim desolation, where the ax cuts but leaves no blaze, where the pioneer disappears and few or none follow. It was not the wilderness of the desert, of the jungle; rather the tragic. hopeless state of settlement that neither progressed. retarded nor ,t-tood still.
 Between the landing and the settle ment itself there stretched a winding road, arid and treeless. perhaps two miles in length. It announced deh- nitely that its end was futility. The dust hung like fog above it, not only for this day, but for all days between the big rains. When the gods, or the elements, or Providence, arranged the world as a fit habitation for man, h. dia and Burma were made the dust bins. And as water finds it's levels, so will dust. earthly and human, the quick and the dead.
 Along the road walked two men, phantomlike. One saw their heads dimly and still more dimly their bodies to the knees: of legs there was noth- ing visible. Occasionally they stepped aside to permit some bullock cart to pass. One of them swore, not with any evidence of temper not viciously, but in kind of mechanical protest, which, from long usage, had become a habit. He directed these epithets never at anything he could by mental or physical contest overcome. He swore at the dust. at the heat. at the wind, at the sun.
 The other wayfarer, with the inner ent patience of his blood, said nothing and waited. setting down the heavy kit bag and the canvas valise (his own). When the way was free again he would sling the kit bag and the valise over his shoulder and step back into the road. His turban, once white. was brown with dust and sweat. His khaki uniform was rent and the rag ged canvas shoes spurted little spirals of dust as he walked. James Hooghly was Eurasian; half European. half h. dian, having his place twixt heaven and hell. which is to say, nowhere. He was faithful willing and strong; and as a carrier of burdens took unmur. muringly his place beside the tireless bullock and the elephant. He was a Methodist; why, no one could find lu- cid answer. By dint of inquiry his master had learned that James looked upon his baptism and conversion in Methodism as corporal would have looked upon the acquisition of V. c. Twice, during fever and plague. he had saved his masters life. With the guilelessness of the Oriental he con sidered himself responsible for his master in all future times. Instead of paying off a debt he had acquired one. Treated as he was, kindly but always firmly, he would have surrendered his life cheerfully at the beck of the white man.
 Warrington was an American. He was also one of those men who never held misfortune in contempt, whose outlook wherever it roamed was toll erant. He had patience for the weak, resolution for the strong and fear. less amiability toward all, He was like the St Bernard dog, very difii- cult to arouse. It is rather the way with all men who are strong mentally and physically, He was tall and broad and deep. Under the battered pith helmet his face was as dark as the Eurasian's; but the eyes were blue. bright and small pupiled. as they are with men who live out of doors. who are compelled of necessity to note things moving at distances. The nose was large and we'll defined All framed in tangle of blond beard and
 
 to the general manliness of his ap- pearance. He, too, wore khaki but with the addition of tan riding leg gings, which had seen anything but westinghouse service. The man was yellow from the top of his helmet to the soles of his shoes-outside. For the rest. he was mystery, to James. to all who thought they knew him. and most of all to himself A pariah. an outcast, a fugitive from the bloodless hand of the law: a gentleman born. once upon time a clubman. college bred. contradiction. puzzle for v aich there was not any solution, not even in .he hidden corners of the mans heart His name wasn't War yington: and he had rubbed elbows with the dregs of humanity. and still looked you straight in the eye because he had come through inferno without bringing any of the defiiing pitch.