Heywood’s reply was lost, except the words, “stupid people.”

“In every nation,” agreed the placid voice.  “It is true.  What says the Viceroy of Hupeh:  ’They see a charge of bird-shot, and think they are tasting broiled owl.’—­Walk slowly!”

“A safe walk, Your Excellency.”

The cymbals struck up, the cavalcade, headed by ragamuffin lictors with whips, went swaying past the gate.  Heywood, when he returned, was grinning.

“Wonderful old chap!” he exclaimed.  “Hates this station, I fancy, much as we hate it.”

“Anything to concern us?” asked Gilly.

“Intimated he could beat me at chess,” laughed the young man, “and will bet me a jar of peach wine to a box of Manila cigars!”

Chantel, from a derisive dumb-show near the window, had turned to waddle solemnly down the room.  At sight of Heywood’s face he stopped guiltily.

“Chantel!” All the laughter was gone from the voice and the hard gray eyes.  “Yesterday we humored you tin-soldier fashion, but to-day let’s put away childish things.—­I like that magistrate, plainly, a damned deal better than I like you.  When you or I show one half his ability, we’re free to mock him—­in my house.”

For the first time within the memory of any man present, the mimic wilted.

“I—­I did not know,” he stammered, “that old man was your friend.”  Very quiet, and a little flushed, he took his seat among the others.

“I like him no end.”  Still more quiet, Heywood appealed to the company.  “Part for his hard luck—­stuck down, a three-year term, in this neglected hole.  Enemies in power, higher up.  Fang, the Sword-Pen, in great favor up there.—­What?  Oh, said nothing directly, of course.  Friendly call, and all that.  But his indirections speak straight enough.  We understood each other.  The dregs of the town are all stirred up—­bottomside topside—­danger point.  He, in case—­you know—­can’t give us any help.  No means, no recourse.  His chief’s fairly itching to cashier him.—­Spoke highly of your hospital work, padre, but said, ’Even good deeds may be misconstrued.’—­In short, gentlemen, without saying a word, he tells us honestly in plain terms, ’Sorry, but look out for yourselves.’”

A beggar rattled his bowl of cash in the road, below; from up the river sounded wailing cries.

“Did he mention,” said the big padre, presently, “the case against my man, Chok Chung?”

Heywood’s eyes became evasive, his words reluctant.

“The magistrate dodged that—­that unpleasant subject.  The case was forced on him.  Some understrapper tried it.  Let’s be fair.”

Dr. Earle’s great elbows left the board.  Without rising, he seemed to grow in bulk and stature, and send his vision past the company, into those things which are not, to confound the things which are.