If I remembered that temple, I knew I’d have to describe it. The gulf yawned for me.
I shook my head.
«You can see it from all over the harbor,» he informed me. «You don’t need shore-leave to see that temple.»
I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I fixed that particular temple at Rangoon.
«You can’t see it from the harbor,» I contradicted. «You can’t see it from the town. You can’t see it from the top of the stairway. Because – » I paused for the effect. «Because there isn’t any temple there.»
«But I saw it with my own eyes!» he cried.
«That was in – ?» I queried.
«Seventy-one.»
«It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887,» I explained. «It was very old.»
There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in his old eyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.
«The stairway is still there,» I aided him. «You can see it from all over the harbor. And you remember that little island on the right-hand side coming into the harbor?»
I guess there must have been one there (I was prepared to shift it over to the left-hand side), for he nodded. «Gone,» I said. «Seven fathoms of water there now.»
I had gained a moment for breath. While he pondered on time’s changes, I prepared the finishing touches of my story.
«You remember the custom-house at Bombay?»
He remembered it.
«Burned to the ground,» I announced.
«Do you remember Jim Wan?» he came back at me.
«Dead,» I said; but who the devil Jim Wan was I hadn’t the slightest idea.
I was on thin ice again.
«Do you remember Billy Harper, at Shanghai?» I queried back at him quickly.
That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect, but the Billy Harper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory.
«Of course you remember Billy Harper,» I insisted. «Everybody knows him. He’s been there forty years. Well, he’s still there, that’s all.»
And then the miracle happened. The sailorman remembered Billy Harper. Perhaps there was a Billy Harper, and perhaps he had been in Shanghai for forty years and was still there; but it was news to me.
For fully half an hour longer, the sailorman and I talked on in similar fashion. In the end he told the policemen that I was what I represented myself to be, and after a night’s lodging and a breakfast I was released to wander on westward to my married sister in San Francisco.
But to return to the woman in Reno who opened her door to me in the deepening twilight. At the first glimpse of her kindly face I took my cue. I became a sweet, innocent, unfortunate lad. I couldn’t speak. I opened my mouth and closed it again. Never in my life before had I asked any one for food. My embarrassment was painful, extreme.
I was ashamed. I, who looked upon begging as a delightful whimsicality, thumbed myself over into a true son of Mrs. Grundy, burdened with all her bourgeois morality. Only the harsh pangs of the belly-need could compel me to do so degraded and ignoble a thing as beg for food. And into my face I strove to throw all the wan wistfulness of famished and ingenuous youth unused to mendicancy.
«You are hungry, my poor boy,» she said.
I had made her speak first.
I nodded my head and gulped.
«It is the first time I have ever… asked,» I faltered.
«Come right in.» The door swung open. «We have already finished eating, but the fire is burning and I can get something up for you.»
She looked at me closely when she got me into the light.
«I wish my boy were as healthy and strong as you,» she said. «But he is not strong. He sometimes falls down. He just fell down this afternoon and hurt himself badly, the poor dear.»
She mothered him with her voice, with an ineffable tenderness in it that I yearned to appropriate. I glanced at him. He sat across the table, slender and pale, his head swathed in bandages. He did not move, but his eyes, bright in the lamplight, were fixed upon me in a steady and wondering stare.
«Just like my poor father,» I said. «He had the falling sickness. Some kind of vertigo. It puzzled the doctors. They never could make out what was the matter with him.»
«He is dead?» she queried gently, setting before me half a dozen soft-boiled eggs.
«Dead,» I gulped. «Two weeks ago. I was with him when it happened. We were crossing the street together. He fell right down. He was never conscious again. They carried him into a drug-store. He died there.»
And thereat I developed the pitiful tale of my father – how, after my mother’s death, he and I had gone to San Francisco from the ranch; how his pension (he was an old soldier), and the little other money he had, was not enough; and how he had tried book-canvassing. Also, I narrated my own woes during the few days after his death that I had spent alone and forlorn on the streets of San Francisco.
While that good woman warmed up biscuits, fried bacon, and cooked more eggs, and while I kept pace with her in taking care of all that she placed before me, I enlarged the picture of that poor orphan boy and filled in the details. I became that poor boy. I believed in him as I believed in the beautiful eggs I was devouring. I could have wept for myself. I know the tears did get into my voice at times. It was very effective.
In fact, with every touch I added to the picture, that kind soul gave me something also. She made up a lunch for me to carry away. She put in many boiled eggs, pepper and salt, and other things, and a big apple. She provided me with three pairs of thick red woollen socks. She gave me clean handkerchiefs and other things which I have since forgotten.
And all the time she cooked more and more and I ate more and more. I gorged like a savage; but then it was a far cry across the Sierras on a blind baggage, and I knew not when nor where I should find my next meal. And all the while, like a death’s-head at the feast, silent and motionless, her own unfortunate boy sat and stared at me across the table.
I suppose I represented to him mystery, and romance, and adventure – all that was denied the feeble flicker of life that was in him. And yet I could not forbear, once or twice, from wondering if he saw through me down to the bottom of my mendacious heart.
«But where are you going to?» she asked me.
«Salt Lake City,» said I. «I have a sister there – a married sister.» (I debated if I should make a Mormon out of her, and decided against it.) «Her husband is a plumber – a contracting plumber.»
Now I knew that contracting plumbers were usually credited with making lots of money. But I had spoken. It was up to me to qualify.
«They would have sent me the money for my fare if I had asked for it,» I explained, «but they have had sickness and business troubles. His partner cheated him. And so I wouldn’t write for the money. I knew I could make my way there somehow. I let them think I had enough to get me to Salt Lake City. She