Soon after,
coming out from a cup in the winding pathway, emerged a four-man chair,
and I had no doubt then that it was a European on the road, and I began
to get as curious as anyone naturally would in a country where in
interior travel his own foreign kind are met with but seldom. Hurrying
on, I managed to pass the chair in a place where overhanging foliage
shut out the light, so that I could not see through the windows, and as
the front curtain was down I concluded that it must be a lady, probably
a missionary lady. I pushed on to the nearest tavern--a tea tavern, of
course--buttoned up my coat so that she should not see my dirty shirt,
and waited for the presence to approach. From an inner apartment,
through a window, I could see all that went on outside, but could not be
seen. What is it that makes a man's heart go pit-a-pat when he is about
to meet a European lady in mid-China?
Presently the chair approached. From it came a person covered in a huge
fur-lined, fur-collared coat many sizes too large for his small body--it
was a Chinese. Several men were pushed out of his way as he strode
towards me, extending his hand in a cordial "shake, old fellow" style,
and yelling in purest accent, "Good morning, sir; _good_ morning, sir!"
"Oh, good morning.
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