George Fenn - Stan Lynn - A Boy's Adventures in China

As soon as they were inside, the manager perched himself on a high stool, took a big ebony ruler off the desk, and began rolling it to and fro upon his knees, before opening the principal letter of the batch, one which Stan could see plainly had been written by his uncle.

This missive the manager read through twice before laying it flat upon the table and giving it a bang with his open hand.

“Bah!” he growled. “Stan Lynn – Stan Lynn. What a name for a boy! Why did your people christen you that?”

“They didn’t,” said Stan coolly, though he could feel a peculiar twitching going on along his nerves.

“What!” cried the manager fiercely – quite in the tone he would have used to a contradictory coolie. “Why, look here,” he continued, bringing his hand down on the packet of letters with another heavy bang which made the ink start out of the well. “Why, I have it here, in your father’s handwriting. Um – um – um! Where is it? Oh, here: ‘my son Stan’.”

“Nonsense! Let’s look,” said the boy sharply, and quickly stepping forward to look at the writing. “’Tisn’t; it’s ‘Stanley,’ only my father has contracted the ‘ley’ into a dash. It’s a way he has.”

“Then it’s time he began to write plainly. Who’s to know what he means?”

“Any one,” said Stan quite as fiercely. “And look here; you wouldn’t speak of my father’s writing like that if he were here.”

“What!” roared the manager, giving the desk a tremendous bang with the big ebony ruler to frighten Stan, who began to perspire profusely, but not from alarm. His temper, that had been fast asleep, was aroused by the reception he was having, and feeling at once that life with this man would be unbearable, he spoke out at once boldly and defiantly.

“I spoke plainly enough,” he said haughtily, “and you know what I said.”

“Well,” cried the manager, “of all the insolent young coxcombs I ever encountered, you take the prize. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” said Stan; “my father’s manager.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” he roared; “and I know how to manage men, let alone cocky, conceited boys. Don’t you think you are coming here to lord it and set up your feathers, and crow and grow scarlet in the comb. I shall soon cut that for you, so just get ready to take your proper place at once. I’d have you to know that I have as much authority and am as much master in this solitary, out-of-the-way place as if I were a king.”

“Over the Chinese coolies, perhaps,” said Stan firmly, “but not over me.”

“What I – Why, the boy’s mad with conceit.”

“No, I’m not,” said Stan – “not conceited at all; and if you behave properly to me you’ll find that I shall help you in every way I can.”

“Behave properly! Oh, come! this is rich. Here’s a boy who ought to be at school, where he would get the cane if he did not behave himself, vapouring about as if he had come to be master here. There! the sooner we understand each other the better – Mr Stanley – sir.”

There was a mocking sarcasm in the delivery of these last words that made the boy writhe. But he mastered his temper bravely enough, and said coolly:

“I don’t want to be called ‘Mr Stanley’ and ‘sir.’ I was christened Stanley, but my friends looked upon it as being too pretentious. They always call me Stan.”

“Oh, I see! Thank you for the kind explanation,” said the manager sarcastically. “Well, here you are; and now you are here, what do you want? I see you’ve brought a gun. Come snipe and duck shooting?”

“My father has fully explained in his letter, I believe.”

“Explained? Perhaps so; but I have not had time to read it yet, so perhaps you will speak.”

“That is easily done. You wrote to the firm asking for help and companionship.”

“Of course I did; and I took it for granted that Mr Jeffrey Lynn would come and share the burden of my enormously increasing work.”

“It is all explained in the letters, as I told you,” said Stan. “Uncle was coming, but the Chinese made an attack on the place.”

“Eh? What’s that?” cried the manager excitedly; and Stan gave him a brief account of what had passed, while every word was listened to eagerly.

“It was quite out of the question for my father to be left,” ended Stan at last, “and so I am sent to help instead.”

“Humph!” said the manager, looking grave. “It has come to that, has it? Restless, uncontrolled savages. Well,” he added, changing his tone again, “so they’ve sent a boy like you?”

“Yes.”

“And for want of decent help and companionship, I’m to make the best of you?”

“I suppose so,” said Stan coldly, and wishing the while that he was back at Hai-Hai, home, or anywhere but at this solitary hong .

“But I don’t think you’ll like the life here, young fellow,” said the manager, with an unpleasant smile. “There’s a very savage, piratical lot of Chinese about on this river. It has an awful character. If you’ll take my advice – Will you?”

“Of course,” said Stan quietly. “You must know better, from your experience here, than I do.”

“That’s right; I do. Well, then, you take it: go back by the next boat. It doesn’t look as if things are very safe at Hai-Hai, but it’s a paradise to this place here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Stan, “but I certainly can’t go back; I have come to stay.”

“Oh, very well!” said the manager. “I’ve warned you. I wash my hands of the whole affair. But I’ll promise you this: I’ll get your remains together.”

“My remains?” said Stan, aghast.

“Of course; they are sure to hack you to pieces – it’s a way they have. And there’ll be some difficulty, perhaps, in recovering your head. They generally carry that off as a trophy; but I’ll do my best to get you back to the old folks in a cask of Chinese palm-spirit. Will that do?”

During the past few moments Stan had felt a sensation as if cold steel of wondrously sharp edge were at work upon his back and across his neck; but the tone of the question brought him back to himself, and he replied calmly:

“Capitally. But, by the way, if the savage pirates come and treat me like that, where will you be?”

“Eh?” said the manager, staring. “Where shall I be?”

“Yes. Isn’t it just as likely that I should have to do this duty for you?”

“Oh, I see! Yes, of course; but – Ha, ha, ha! Come! you have got something in you after all. You are pretty sharp.”

“Just sharp enough to see that you are trying to frighten me.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the manager, with a dry smile. “But you’ve had a sample of what these people can do, and I won’t answer for it that they don’t try some of their capers here. Then you mean to risk it?”

“Of course,” said Stan. “My father and uncle sent me to help you.”

“Well, don’t blame me if you get your head taken off.”

“No,” said Stan coolly, and with a peculiar smile; “I don’t think I shall do that – then.”

“More do I,” said the manager grimly. “Well, here you are, and I suppose I must make the best of you.”

“I suppose so,” said Stan.

“You’ll have to work pretty hard – make entries and keep the day-book. I suppose you can do that?”

“I suppose so,” said the lad, “but I can’t say for certain till I try.”

“All right; then the sooner you try the better, because I’ve got enough to do here in keeping things straight; and if you find that you can’t, I shall just pack you off back to your father and uncle. You’re too young, and not the sort of chap I should have chosen for the job.”