The star-independent. [volume] (Harrisburg, Pa.) 1904-1917, 1915-02-22
CHAPTER !.
East Is East.

It began somewhere in the middle
of the world. at forlorn landing on
the west bank of the muddy, turbu.
lent lrrawaddy, remembered by man
only so often as 1t was necessary for
the fiotilla boat to call for paddy, a
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 ak
cuts but leaves no blaze, where the
pioneer disappears and few or none
follow. 1t was not the wilderness Of
the desert, Of the jungle; rather the
tragic, hopeless state Of settlement
that neither progressed, retarded nor
stood still
Between the landing and the settle.
ment itself there stretched a winding
road, arid and treeless, perhaps two
miles in length. 1t announced def.
nitely that its end was futility. The
dust hung like a 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 fit habitation for man, In
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 moth
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 inher-
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
yalise 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 In.
dian, having his place twiXt heaven
and hell, which is to say, nowhere. He
was faithful willing and strong; and
as 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 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 tol.
Grant. He had patience for the weak,
resolution for the strong and a fear.
less amiability toward all. He was
like the st. Bernard dog, very diff.
cult to arouse. 1t 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 well defined. All
framed in tangle of blond beard and
mustache which, If anything, added
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
rockinghorse 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, fugitive from the bloodless
hand of the law; a gentleman born,
once upon time clubman, college
bred; a contradiction, a puzzle for
which there was not any solution, not
even in the hidden corners Of the
mans heart. His name wasn't War.
rington; 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 defiing pitch.
From time to time he paused to re.
light his crumbling cheroot. The to-
bacco was strong and bitter aud stung
his parched lips; but the craving for
the tang of the smoke on his tongue
was not to be denied.
Under his arm he carried a small