Kai Lung's Golden Hours by Ernest Bramah (best detective novels of all time .TXT) 📕

should any arrive, will entail some conflict.”

“I bow before the practical many-sidedness of your mind, enchanting one,” murmured Kai Lung, in deep-felt admiration.

“To-morrow, being the first of the Month of Gathering-in, will be one of Shan Tien’s lucky days,” continued the maiden, her look acknowledging the fitness of the compliment, but at the same time indicating that the moment was not a suitable one to pursue the detail further. “After holding court the Mandarin will accordingly proceed to hazard his accustomed stake upon the chances of certain of the competitors in the approaching examinations. His mind will thus be alertly watchful for a guiding omen. The rest should lie within your persuasive tongue.”

“The story of Lao Ting—” began Kai Lung.

“Enough,” replied Hwa-mei, listening to a distant sound. “Already has this one strayed beyond her appointed limit. May your virtuous cause prevail!”

With this auspicious message the maiden fled, leaving Kai Lung more than ever resolved to conduct the enterprise in a manner worthy of her high regard.

On the following day, at the appointed hour, Kai Lung was again led before the Mandarin Shan Tien. To the alert yet downcast gaze of the former person it seemed as if the usually inscrutable expression of that high official was not wholly stern as it moved in his direction. Ming-shu, on the contrary, disclosed all his voracious teeth without restraint.

“Calling himself Kai Lung,” began the detestable accuser, in a voice even more repulsive than its wont, “and claiming—”

“The name has a somewhat familiar echo,” interrupted the Fountain of Justice, with a genial interest in what was going on, rare in one of his exalted rank. “Have we not seen the ill-conditioned thing before?”

“He has tasted of your unutterable clemency in the past,” replied Ming-shu, “this being by no means his first appearance thus. Claiming to be a story-teller—”

“What,” demanded the enlightened law-giver with leisurely precision, “is a story-teller, and how is he defined?”

“A story-teller, Excellence,” replied the inscriber of his spoken word, with the concise manner of one who is not entirely grateful to another, “is one who tells stories. Having on—”

“The profession must be widely spread,” remarked the gracious administrator thoughtfully. “All those who supplicate in this very average court practise it to a more or less degree.”

“The prisoner,” continued the insufferable Ming-shu, so lost to true refinement that he did not even relax his dignity at a remark handed down as gravity-removing from times immemorial, “has already been charged and made his plea. It only remains, therefore, to call the witnesses and to condemn him.”

“The usual band appears to be more retiring than their custom is,” observed Shan Tien, looking around. “Their lack of punctual respect does not enlarge our sympathy towards their cause.”

“They are all hard-striving persons of studious or commercial habits,” replied Ming-shu, “and have doubtless become immersed in their various traffics.”

“Should the immersion referred to prove to be so deep—”

“A speedy messenger has already gone, but his returning footsteps tarry,” urged Ming-shu anxiously. “In this extremity, Excellence, I will myself—”

“High Excellence,” appealed Kai Lung, as soon as Ming-shu’s departing sandals were obscured to view, “out of the magnanimous condescension of your unworldly heart hear an added plea. Taught by the inoffensive example of that Lao Ting whose success in the literary competitions was brought about by a conjunction of miraculous omens—”

“Arrest the stream of your acknowledged oratory for a single breathing-space,” commanded the Mandarin dispassionately, yet at the same time unostentatiously studying a list that lay within his sleeve. “What was the auspicious name of the one of whom you spoke?”

“Lao Ting, exalted; to whom at various periods were subjoined those of Li, Tzu, Sun, Chu, Wang and Chin.”

“Assuredly. Your prayer for a fuller hearing will reach our lenient ears. In the meanwhile, in order to prove that the example upon which you base your claim is a worthy one, proceed to narrate so much of the story of Lao Ting as bears upon the means of his success.”

The Story of Lao Ting and the Luminous Insect

It is of Lao Ting that the saying has arisen, “He who can grasp Opportunity as she slips by does not need a lucky dream.”

So far, however, Lao Ting may be judged to have had neither opportunities nor lucky dreams. He was one of studious nature and from an early age had devoted himself to a veneration of the Classics. Yet with that absence of foresight on the part of the providing deities (for this, of course, took place during an earlier, and probably usurping, dynasty), which then frequently resulted in the unworthy and illiterate prospering, his sleeve was so empty that at times it seemed almost impossible for him to continue in his high ambition.

As the date of the examinations drew near, Lao Ting’s efforts increased, and he grudged every moment spent away from books. His few available cash scarcely satisfied his ever-moving brush, and his sleeve grew so light that it seemed as though it might become a balloon and carry him into the Upper Air; for, as the Wisdom has it, “A well-filled purse is a trusty earth anchor.” On food he spent even less, but the inability to procure light after the sun had withdrawn his benevolence from the narrow street in which he lived was an ever-present shadow across his hopes. On this extremity he patiently and with noiseless skill bored a hole through the wall into the house of a wealthy neighbour, and by this inoffensive stratagem he was able to distinguish the imperishable writings of the Sages far into the night. Soon, however, the gross hearted person in question discovered the device, owing to the symmetrical breathing of Lao Ting, and applying himself to the opening unperceived, he suddenly blew a jet of water through and afterwards nailed in a wooden skewer. This he did because he himself was also entering for the competitions, though he did not really fear Lao Ting.

Thus denied, Lao Ting sought other means to continue his study, if for only a few minutes longer daily, and it became his custom to leave his ill-equipped room when it grew dusk and to walk into the outer ways, always with his face towards the west, so that he might prolong the benefit of the great luminary to the last possible moment. When the time of no-light definitely arrived he would climb up into one of the high places to await the first beam of the great sky-lantern, and also in the reasonable belief that the nearer he got to it the more powerful would be its light.

It was upon such an occasion that Lao Ting first became aware of the entrancing presence of Chun Hoa-mi, and although he plainly recognized from the outset that the graceful determination with which she led a water-buffalo across the landscape by means of a slender cord attached to its nose was not conducive to his taking a high place in the competitions, he soon found that he was unable to withdraw himself from frequenting the spot at the same hour on each succeeding day. Presently, however, he decided that his previous misgiving was inaccurate, as her existence inspired him with an all-conquering determination to outdistance every other candidate in so marked a manner that his name would at once become famous throughout the province, to attain high office without delay, to lead a victorious army against the encroaching barbarian foe and thus to save the Empire in a moment of emergency, to acquire vast riches (in a not clearly defined manner), to become the intimate counsellor of the grateful Emperor, and finally to receive posthumous honours of unique distinction, the harmonious personality of Hoa-Mi being inextricably entwined among these achievements.

At other times, however, he became subject to a funereal conviction that he would fail discreditably in the examinations to an accompaniment of the ridicule and contempt of all who knew him, that he would never succeed in acquiring sufficient brass cash to ensure a meagre sustenance even for himself, and that he would probably end his lower existence by ignominious decapitation, so that his pale and hungry ghost would be unable to find its way from place to place and be compelled to remain on the same spot through all eternity. Yet so quickly did these two widely diverging vistas alternate in Lao Ting’s mind that on many occasions he was under the influence of both presentiments at the same time.

It will thus be seen that Lao Ting was becoming involved in emotions of a many-sided hue, by which his whole future would inevitably be affected, when an event took place which greatly tended to restore his tranquillity of mind. He was, at the usual hour, lurking unseen on the path of Hoa-mi’s approach when the water-buffalo, with the perversity of its kind, suddenly withdrew itself from the amiable control of its attendant’s restraining hand and precipitated its resistless footsteps towards the long grass in which Lao Ting lay concealed. Recognizing that a decisive moment in the maiden’s esteem lay before him, the latter, in spite of an incapable doubt as to the habits and manner of behaviour of creatures of this part, set out resolutely to subdue it.... At a later period, by clinging tenaciously to its tail, he undoubtedly impeded its progress, and thereby enabled Hoa-mi to greet him as one who had a claim upon her gratitude.

“The person who has performed this slight service is Ting, of the outcast line of Lao,” said the student with an admiring bow in spite of a benumbing pain that involved all his lower attributes. “Having as yet achieved nothing, the world lies before him.”

“She who speaks is Hoa-mi, her father’s house being Chun,” replied the maiden agreeably. “In addition to the erratic but now repentant animal that has thus, as it were, brought us within the same narrow compass, he possesses a wooden plough, two wheel-barrows, a red bow with threescore arrows, and a rice-field, and is therefore a person of some consequence.”

“True,” agreed Lao Ting, “though perhaps the dignity is less imposing than might be imagined in the eye of one who, by means of successive examinations, may ultimately become the Right hand of the Emperor.”

“Is the contingency an impending one?” inquired Hoa-mi, with polite interest.

“So far,” admitted Lao Ting, “it is more in the nature of a vision. There are, of necessity, many trials, and few can reach the ultimate end. Yet even the Yangtze-kiang has a source.”

“Of your unswerving tenacity this person has already been witness,” said the maiden, with a glance of refined encouragement.

“Your words are more inspiring than the example of the aged woman of Shang-li to the student Tsung,” declared Lao Ting gratefully. “Unless the Omens are asleep they should tend to the same auspicious end.”

“The exact instance of the moment escapes my recollection.” Probably Hoa-mi was by no means willing that one of studious mind should associate her exclusively with water-buffaloes. “Is it related in the Classics?”

“Possibly, though in which actual masterpiece just now evades my grasp. The youth referred to was on the point of abandoning a literary career, appalled at the magnitude of the task before him, when he encountered an aged woman who was employed in laboriously rubbing away the surface of an iron crowbar on a block of stone. To his inquiry she cheerfully replied: ‘The one who is thus engaged required a needle to complete a task. Being unable to procure one she was about to give way to an ignoble despair when chance put into her hands this bar, which only requires bringing down to the necessary size.’ Encouraged by this painstaking example Tsung returned to his books and in due course became a high official.”

“Doubtless in the time of his prosperity he retraced his footsteps and lavishly rewarded the one to whom he was thus indebted,” suggested Hoa-mi gracefully.

“Doubtless,” admitted Lao Ting, “but the detail is not pursued to so remote an extremity in the Classic. The delicate poise of the analogy is what is chiefly dwelt upon, the sign for a needle harmonizing with that for official, and there being a similar balance between crowbar and books.”

“Your words are like a page written in vermilion ink,” exclaimed Hoa-mi, with a sideway-expressed admiration.

“Alas!” he declared, with conscious humility, “my style is meagre and almost wholly threadbare. To remedy this, each day I strive to perfect myself in the correct formation of five new written signs. When equipped with a knowledge of every one there is I shall be competent to write so striking and original an essay on any subject that it will no longer be possible to exclude my name from the list of official appointments.”

“It will be a day of well-achieved triumph for the spirits of your expectant ancestors,” said Hoa-mi sympathetically.

“It will also have a beneficial effect on my own material prospects,” replied Lao Ting, with a commendable desire to awaken images of a more