Originally published: Oct. 2, 1909
Genres: Adventure, Children's
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/200517997-motor-matt-s-double-trouble-or-the-last-of-the-hoodoo
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53533
Chapters: 16
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
THE RED JEWEL
Craft and greed showed in the eyes of the hatchet-faced Chinaman. He seemed to have been in deep slumber in the car seat, but the drowsiness was feigned. The train was not five minutes out of the town of Catskill before he had roused himself, wary and wide-awake, and looked across the aisle. His look and manner gave evidence that he was meditating on some crime.
It was in the small hours of the morning, and the passenger train was rattling and bumping through the heavy gloom. The lights in the coach had been turned low, and all the passengers, with the exception of the thin-visaged Chinaman, were sprawling in their uncomfortable seats, snoring or breathing heavily.
Across the aisle from this criminally inclined native of the Flowery Kingdom was another who likewise hailed from the land of pagodas and mystery; and this other, it could be seen at a glance, was a person of some consequence.
He was fat and under the average height. Drawn down over his shaven head was a black silk cap, with a gleaming red button sewn in the center of the flat crown. From under the edge of the cap dropped a queue of silken texture, thick, and so long that it crossed the Chinaman's shoulder and lay in one or two coils across his fat knees.
Yellow is the royal color in China, and it is to be noted that this Chinaman's blouse was of yellow, and his wide trousers, and his stockings—all yellow and of the finest Canton silk. His sandals were black and richly embroidered.
From the button and the costume, one at all informed of fashions as followed in the country of Confucius might have guessed that this stout person was a Mandarin. And that guess would have been entirely correct.
To go further and reveal facts that will presently become the reader's in the logical unfolding of this chronicle, the Mandarin was none other than Tsan Ti, discredited guardian of the Honam Joss house, situated on an island suburb of the city of Canton. He of the slant, lawless gleaming eyes was Sam Wing, the Mandarin's trusted and treacherous servant.
A Chinaman, like his Caucasian brother, is not always proof against temptation when the ugly opportunity presents itself at the right time and in the right way. Sam Wing believed he had come face to face with such an opportunity, and he was determined to make the most of it.
Sam Wing was a resident of San Francisco. He owned a fairly prosperous bazaar, and, once every year, turned his profits into Mexican dollars and forwarded the silver to an uncle in Canton for investment in the land of his birth. Some day Sam Wing cherished the dream of returning to Canton and living like a grandee. But wealth came slowly. Now, there in that foreign devil's choo-choo car such a chance offered to secure unheard-of riches that Sam Wing's loyalty to the Mandarin, no less than his heathen ideas of integrity, was brushed away with astounding suddenness.
Tsan Ti slept. His round head was wabbling on his short neck—rolling and swaying grotesquely with every lurch of the train. The red button of the mandarin's cap caught the dim rays of the overhead lamps and threw crimson gleams into the eyes of Sam Wing. This flashing button reminded Sam Wing of the red jewel, worth a king's ransom, which the Mandarin was personally conveying to San Francisco, en route to China and the city of Canton.
Already Sam Wing was entrusted with the mandarin's money bag—an alligator-skin pouch containing many oblong pieces of green paper marked with figures of large denomination. The money was good, what there was of it, but that was not enough to pay for theft and flight. Sam Wing's long, talon-like fingers itched to lay hold of the red jewel.
With a swift, reassuring look at the passengers in the car, Sam Wing caught at the back of the seat in front and lifted himself erect. He was not a handsome Chinaman, by any means, and he appeared particularly repulsive just at that moment.
Hanging on the seat, he steadied himself as he stepped lightly across the aisle. Another moment and he was at the mandarin's side, looking down on him.
Tsan Ti, in his dreams, was again in Canton. Striding through the great chamber of the Honam joss house, he was superintending the return of the red jewel to the forehead of the twenty-foot idol, whence it had been stolen.
While the mandarin dreamed, Sam Wing bent down over him and, with cautious fingers, unfastened the loop of silk cord that held together the front of the yellow blouse. The rich garment fell open, revealing a small bag hanging from the mandarin's throat by a chain.
Swiftly, silently, and with hardly a twitch of the little bag, two of Sam Wing's slim, long-nailed fingers were inserted and presently drew forth a resplendent gem, large as a small hen's egg.
A gasping breath escaped Sam Wing's lips. For a fraction of an instant he hesitated. What if his ancestors were regarding him, looking out of the vastness of the life to come with stern disapproval? A Chinaman worships his ancestors, and the shades of the ancient ones of his blood have a great deal to do with the regulating of his life. What were Sam Wing's forefathers thinking of this act of vile treachery?
The thief ground his teeth and, with trembling hands, stowed the red jewel in the breast of his blouse. He started toward the rear door of the car—and hesitated again.
Sam Wing was a Buddhist, as the Chinese understand Buddhism, wrapping it up in their own mystic traditions. This red jewel had originally been stolen from a great idol of Buddha. In short, the jewel had been the idol's eye, and the idol, sightless in the Honam Joss house, was believed to be in a vengeful mood because of the missing optic. The idol had marshaled all the ten thousand demons of misfortune and had let them loose upon all who had anything to do with the pilfering of the sacred jewel.
Who was Sam Wing that he should defy these ten thousand demons of misfortune? How could he, a miserable bazaar man, fight the demons?
But his skin tingled from the touch of the red jewel against his breast. He would dare all for the vast wealth that might be his in case he could "get away with the goods."
Closing his eyes to honor, to the ten thousand demons, to every article of his faith, he bolted for the rear of the car. Opening the door, he let himself out on the rear platform. A lurch of the car caused the door to slam behind him.
Meanwhile, Tsan Ti had continued his delightful dreaming. His subconscious mind was watching the priests as they worked with the red jewel, replacing it on the idol's forehead. The hideous face of the graven image seemed to glow with satisfaction because of the recovery of the eye.
The priest, at the top of the ladder, fumbled suddenly with his hands. The red jewel dropped downward, with a crimson flash, struck the tiles of the floor, and rolled away, and away, until it vanished.
A yell of consternation burst from the Mandarin's lips. He leaped forward to secure the red jewel—and came to himself with his head aching from a sharp blow against the seat back in front.
He straightened up, and the alarm died out of his face. After all, it was only a dream!
"Say!" cried a man in the seat ahead, turning an angry look at Tsan Ti. "What you yellin' for? Can't a heathen like you let a Christian sleep? Huh?"
"A million pardons, most estimable sir," answered Tsan Ti humbly. "I had a dream, a bad dream."
"Too much bird's nest soup an' too many sharks' fins for supper, I guess," scowled the man, rearranging himself for slumber. "Pah!"
Tsan Ti peered across the aisle. The seat occupied by his servant, Sam Wing, was vacant. Sam Wing, the mandarin thought, must have become thirsty and gone for a drink.
The mandarin heaved a choppy sigh of relief. How real a dream sometimes is! Now, if he—
His hand wandered instinctively to the breast of his blouse, and he felt for the little lump contained in the bag suspended from his throat.
He could not feel it. Pulling himself together sharply Tsan Ti used both hands in his groping examination.
Then he caught his breath and sat as though dazed. A slow horror ran through his body. His blood seemed to congeal about his heart, and his yellow face grew hueless.
The red jewel was gone! The front of his blouse was open!
Then, after his blunted wits had recovered their wonted sharpness, Tsan Ti leaped for the aisle with another yell.
"Say," cried the man in the forward seat, lifting himself wrathfully, "I'll have the brakeman kick you off the train if you don't hush! By jing!"
The Mandarin began running up and down the aisle of the car, wringing his fat hands and yelling for Sam Wing. He said other things, too, but it was all in his native language and could not be comprehended.
By then every person in the car was awake.
"Crazy Chinese!" shouted the man who had spoken before. "He's gone dotty! Look out for him!"
At that moment the train lumbered to a halt and the lights of a station shone through the car windows. The brakeman jammed open the door and shouted a name.
"Motor Matt!" wailed Tsan Ti. "Estimable friend, come to my wretched assistance!"
"Here, brakeman!" cried the wrathful passenger who had already aired his views, "take this slant-eyed lunatic by the collar of his kimono and give him a hi'st into the right of way. Chinese ought to be carried in cattle cars, anyhow."
Tsan Ti, however, did not wait to be "hoisted into the right of way."
With a final yell, he flung himself along the aisle and out the rear door, nearly overturning the astounded brakeman. Once on the station platform, he made a beeline for the waiting room and the telegraph office.
There was but one person in all America in whom the mandarin had any confidence, but one person to whom he would appeal. This was the king of the motor boys, who, at that moment, was in the town of Catskill.
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