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    WHITE MICE
    BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS




    THE

    WHITE MICE

    BY

    RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

    ILLUSTRATED BY

    _GEORGE GIBBS_

    CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
    NEW YORK _1912_




    COPYRIGHT, 1909,
    BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS




    [Illustration: "What does anything matter, when I know--that the end
    is near!"]




    ILLUSTRATIONS


    "What does anything matter, when I know--that the
    end is near!" _Frontispiece_

    FACING PAGE

    "_O-i-i-ga_, you Moso! Get a move on! _Pronto!_ If
    you don't I'll do that myself" 20

    "I hear the call of the White Mice," said Peter de
    Peyster 30

    Under the blow, the masked man staggered drunkenly 70

    Shifting the reins to his left hand, Roddy let the
    other fall upon his revolver 114

    "Now I know why I came to Venezuela!" 144

    On such a night, Leander swam the Hellespont 198

    Her fingers traced the sign of the cross 294




    THE WHITE MICE




    I


    Once upon a time a lion dropped his paw upon a mouse.

    "Please let me live!" begged the mouse, "and some day I will do as
    much for you."

    "That is so funny," roared the king of beasts, "that we will release
    you. We had no idea mice had a sense of humor."

    And then, as you remember, the lion was caught in the net of the
    hunter, and struggled, and fought, and struck blindly, until his
    spirit and strength were broken, and he lay helpless and dying.

    And the mouse, happening to pass that way, gnawed and nibbled at the
    net, and gave the lion his life.

    The morals are: that an appreciation of humor is a precious thing;
    that God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform, and that
    you never can tell.

    In regard to this fable it is urged that, according to the doctrine
    of chances, it is extremely unlikely that at the very moment the lion
    lay bound and helpless the very same mouse should pass by. But the
    explanation is very simple and bromidic.

    It is this--that this is a small world.

    People who are stay-at-home bodies come to believe the whole world is
    the village in which they live. People who are rolling-stones claim
    that if you travel far enough and long enough the whole world becomes
    as one village; that sooner or later you make friends with every one
    in it; that the only difference between the stay-at-homes and the
    gadabouts is that while the former answer local telephone calls, the
    others receive picture postal-cards. There is a story that seems to
    illustrate how small this world is. In fact, this is the story.

    * * * * *

    General Don Miguel Rojas, who as a young man was called the Lion of
    Valencia, and who later had honorably served Venezuela as Minister of
    Foreign Affairs, as Secretary of War, as Minister to the Court of St.
    James and to the Republic of France, having reached the age of sixty
    found himself in a dungeon-cell underneath the fortress in the harbor
    of Porto Cabello. He had been there two years. The dungeon was dark
    and very damp, and at high-tide the waters of the harbor oozed through
    the pores of the limestone walls. The air was the air of a
    receiving-vault, and held the odor of a fisherman's creel.

    General Rojas sat huddled upon a canvas cot, with a blanket about his
    throat and a blanket about his knees, reading by the light of a candle
    the story of Don Quixote. Sometimes a drop of water fell upon the
    candle and it sputtered, and its light was nearly lost in the
    darkness. Sometimes so many drops gathered upon the white head of the
    Lion of Valencia that he sputtered, too, and coughed so violently
    that, in agony, he beat with feeble hands upon his breast. And _his_
    light, also, nearly escaped into the darkness.

    * * * * *

    On the other side of the world, four young Americans, with legs
    crossed and without their shoes, sat on the mats of the tea-house of
    the Hundred and One Steps. On their sun-tanned faces was the glare of
    Yokohama Bay, in their eyes the light of youth, of intelligent
    interest, of adventure. In the hand of each was a tiny cup of acrid
    tea. Three of them were under thirty, and each wore the suit of silk
    pongee that in eighteen hours C. Tom, or Little Ah Sing, the Chinese
    King, fits to any figure, and which in the Far East is the badge of
    the tourist tribe. Of the three, one was Rodman Forrester. His
    father, besides being pointed out as the parent of "Roddy" Forrester,
    the one-time celebrated Yale pitcher, was himself not unfavorably
    known to many governments as a constructor of sky-scrapers,
    breakwaters, bridges, wharves and light-houses, which latter he
    planted on slippery rocks along inaccessible coast-lines. Among his
    fellow Captains of Industry he was known as the Forrester Construction
    Company, or, for short, the "F. C. C." Under that alias Mr. Forrester
    was now trying to sell to the Japanese three light-houses, to
    illuminate the Inner Sea between Kobe and Shimoneseki. To hasten the
    sale he had shipped "Roddy" straight from the machine-shops to
    Yokohama.

    Three years before, when Roddy left Yale, his father ordered him
    abroad to improve his mind by travel, and to inspect certain
    light-houses and breakwaters on both shores of the English Channel.
    While crossing from Dover to Calais on his way to Paris, Roddy made a
    very superficial survey of the light-houses and reported that, so far
    as he could see by daylight, they still were on the job. His father,
    who had his own breezy sense of humor, cancelled Roddy's letter of
    credit, cabled him home, and put him to work in the machine-shop.
    There the manager reported that, except that he had shown himself a
    good "mixer," and had organized picnics for the benefit societies, and
    a base-ball team, he had not earned his fifteen dollars a week.

    When Roddy was called before him, his father said:

    "It is wrong that your rare talents as a 'mixer' should be wasted in
    front of a turning-lathe. Callahan tells me you can talk your way
    through boiler-plate, so I am going to give you a chance to talk the
    Japs into giving us a contract. But, remember this, Roddy," his father
    continued sententiously, "the Japs are the Jews of the present. Be
    polite, but don't appear _too_ anxious. If you do, they will beat you
    down in the price."

    Perhaps this parting injunction explains why, from the time Roddy
    first burst upon the Land of the Rising Sun, he had devoted himself
    entirely to the Yokohama tea-houses and the base-ball grounds of the
    American Naval Hospital. He was trying, he said, not to appear too
    anxious. He hoped father would be pleased.

    With Roddy to Japan, as a companion, friend and fellow-tourist, came
    Peter de Peyster, who hailed from the banks of the Hudson, and of what
    Roddy called "one of our ancient poltroon families." At Yale, although
    he had been two classes in advance of Roddy, the two had been
    roommates, and such firm friends that they contradicted each other
    without ceasing. Having quarrelled through two years of college life,
    they were on terms of such perfect understanding as to be inseparable.

    The third youth was the "Orchid Hunter." His father manufactured the
    beer that, so Roddy said, had made his home town bilious. He was not
    really an orchid hunter, but on his journeyings around the globe he
    had become so ashamed of telling people he had no other business than
    to spend his father's money that he had decided to say he was
    collecting orchids.

    "It shows imagination," he explained, "and I have spent enough money
    on orchids on Fifth Avenue to make good."

    The fourth youth in the group wore the uniform and insignia of a
    Lieutenant of the United States Navy. His name was Perry, and, looking
    down from the toy balcony of the tea-house, clinging like a
    bird's-nest to the face of the rock, they could see his battle-ship on
    the berth. It was Perry who had convoyed them to O Kin San and her
    delectable tea-house, and it was Perry who was talking shop.

    "But the most important member of the ship's company on a submarine,"
    said the sailor-man, "doesn't draw any pay at all, and he has no
    rating. He is a mouse."

    "He's a _what_?" demanded the Orchid Hunter. He had been patriotically
    celebrating the arrival of the American Squadron. During tiffin, the
    sight of the white uniforms in the hotel dining-room had increased his
    patriotism; and after tiffin the departure of the Pacific Mail,
    carrying to the Golden Gate so many "good fellows," further aroused
    it. Until the night before, in the billiard-room, he had never met any
    of the good fellows; but the thought that he might never see them
    again now depressed him. And the tea he was drinking neither cheered
    nor inebriated. So when the Orchid Hunter spoke he showed a touch of
    temper.

    "Don't talk sea slang to me," he commanded; "when you say he is a
    mouse, what do you mean by a mouse?"

    "I mean a mouse," said the Lieutenant, "a white mouse with pink eyes.
    He bunks in the engine-room, and when he smells sulphuric gas escaping
    anywhere he squeals; and the chief finds the leak, and the ship isn't
    blown up. Sometimes, one little, white mouse will save the lives of a
    dozen bluejackets."

    Roddy and Peter de Peyster nodded appreciatively.

    "Mos' extr'd'n'ry!" said the Orchid Hunter. "Mos' sad, too. I will
    now drink to the mouse. The moral of the story is," he pointed out,
    "that everybody, no matter how impecunious, can help; even you fellows
    could help. So could I."

    His voice rose in sudden excitement. "I will now," he cried, "organize
    the Society of the Order of the White Mice. The object of the society
    is to save everybody's life. Don't tell me," he objected scornfully,
    "that you fellows will let a little white mice save twelve hundred
    bluejackets, an' you sit there an' grin. You mus' all be a White Mice.
    You mus' all save somebody's life. An'--then--then we give ourself a
    dinner."

    "And medals!" suggested Peter de Peyster.

    The Orchid Hunter frowned. He regarded the amendment with suspicion.

    "Is't th' intention of the Hon'ble Member from N'York," he asked,
    "that _each_ of us gets a medal, or just th' one that does th'
    saving?"

    "Just one," said Peter de Peyster.

    "No, we all get 'em," protested Roddy. "Each time!"

    "Th' 'men'ment to th' 'men'ment is carried," announced the Orchid
    Hunter. He untwisted his legs and clapped his hands. The paper walls
    slid apart, the little Nezans, giggling, bowing, ironing out their
    knees with open palms, came tripping and stumbling to obey.

    "Take away the tea!" shouted the Orchid Hunter. "It makes me nervous.
    Bring us fizzy-water, in larges' size, cold, expensive bottles. And
    now, you fellows," proclaimed the Orchid Hunter, "I'm goin' into
    secret session and initiate you into Yokohama Chapter, Secret Order of
    White Mice. And--I will be Mos' Exalted Secret White Mouse."

    When he returned to the ship Perry told the wardroom about it and
    laughed, and the wardroom laughed, and that night at the Grand Hotel,
    while the Japanese band played "Give My Regards to Broadway," which
    Peter de Peyster told them was the American national anthem, the White
    Mice gave their first annual dinner. For, as the Orchid Hunter pointed
    out, in order to save life, one must sustain it.

    And Louis Eppinger himself designed that dinner, and the Paymaster,
    and Perry's brother-officers, who were honored guests, still speak of
    it with awe; and the next week's _Box of Curios_ said of it
    editorially: "And while our little Yokohama police know much of
    ju-jitsu, they found that they had still something to learn of the
    short jab to the jaw and the quick getaway."

    Indeed, throughout, it was a most successful dinner.

    And just to show how small this world is, and that "God moves in a
    mysterious way, His wonders to perform," at three o'clock that
    morning, when the dinner-party in rickshaws were rolling down the
    Bund, singing "We're Little White Mice Who Have Gone Astray," their
    voices carried across the Pacific, across the Cordilleras and the
    Caribbean Sea; and an old man in his cell, tossing and shivering with
    fever, smiled and sank to sleep; for in his dreams he had heard the
    scampering feet of the White Mice, and he had seen the gates of his
    prison-cell roll open.

    * * * * *

    The Forrester Construction Company did not get the contract to build
    the three light-houses. The Japanese preferred a light-house made by
    an English firm. They said it was cheaper. It _was_ cheaper, because
    they bought the working plans from a draughtsman the English firm had
    discharged for drunkenness, and, by causing the revolving light to
    wink once instead of twice, dodged their own patent laws.

    Mr. Forrester agreed with the English firm that the Japanese were "a
    wonderful little people," and then looked about for some one
    individual he could blame. Finding no one else, he blamed Roddy. The
    interview took place on the twenty-seventh story of the Forrester
    Building, in a room that overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge.

    "You didn't fall down on the job," the fond parent was carefully
    explaining, "because you never were _on_ the job. You didn't even
    _start_. It was thoughtful of you to bring back kimonos to mother and
    the girls. But the one you brought me does not entirely compensate me
    for the ninety thousand dollars you didn't bring back. I would _like_
    my friends to see me in a kimono with silk storks and purple wistarias
    down the front, but I feel I cannot afford to pay ninety thousand
    dollars for a bathrobe.

    "Nor do I find," continued the irate parent coldly, "that the honor
    you did the company by disguising yourself as a stoker and helping the
    base-ball team of the _Louisiana_ to win the pennant of the Asiatic
    Squadron, altogether reconciles us to the loss of a government
    contract. I have paid a good deal to have you taught mechanical
    engineering, and I should like to know how soon you expect to give me
    the interest on my money."

    Roddy grinned sheepishly, and said he would begin at once, by taking
    his father out to lunch.

    "Good!" said Forrester, Senior. "But before we go, Roddy, I want you
    to look over there to the Brooklyn side. Do you see pier number
    eleven--just south of the bridge? Yes? Then do you see a white steamer
    taking on supplies?"

    Roddy, delighted at the change of subject, nodded.

    "That ship," continued his father, "is sailing to Venezuela, where we
    have a concession from the government to build breakwaters and buoy
    the harbors and put up light-houses. We have been working there for
    two years and we've spent about two million dollars. And some day we
    hope to get our money. Sometimes," continued Mr. Forrester, "it is
    necessary to throw good money after bad. That is what we are doing in
    Venezuela."

    "I don't understand," interrupted Roddy with polite interest.

    "You are not expected to," said his father. "If you will kindly
    condescend to hold down the jobs I give you, you can safely leave the
    high finance of the company to your father."

    "Quite so," said Roddy hastily. "Where shall we go to lunch?"

    As though he had not heard him, Forrester, Senior, continued
    relentlessly: "To-morrow," he said, "you are sailing on that ship for
    Porto Cabello; we have just started a light-house at Porto Cabello,
    and are buoying the harbor. You are going for the F. C. C. You are an
    inspector."

    Roddy groaned and sank into a chair.

    "Go on," he commanded, "break it to me quick! _What_ do I inspect?"

    "You sit in the sun," said Mr. Forrester, "with a pencil, and every
    time our men empty a bag of cement into the ocean you make a mark. At
    the same time, if you are not an utter idiot and completely blind, you
    can't help but see how a light-house is set up. The company is having
    trouble in Venezuela, trouble in collecting its money. You might as
    well know that, because everybody in Venezuela will tell you so. But
    that's all you need to know. The other men working for the company
    down there will think, because you are my son, that you know more
    about what I'm doing in Venezuela than they do. Now, understand, you
    don't know anything, and I want you to say so. I want you to stick to
    your own job, and not mix up in anything that doesn't concern you.
    There will be nothing to distract you. McKildrick writes me that in
    Porto Cabello there are no tea-houses, no roads for automobiles, and,
    except for the fire-flies, all the white lights go out at nine
    o'clock.

    "Now, Roddy," concluded Mr. Forrester warningly, "this is your chance,
    and it is the last chance for dinner in the dining-car, for you. If
    you fail the company, and by the company I mean myself, _this_ time,
    you can ask Fred Sterry for a job on the waiters' nine at Palm Beach."

    * * * * *

    Like all the other great captains, Mr. Forrester succeeded through the
    work of his lieutenants. For him, in every part of the world, more
    especially in those parts of it in which the white man was but just
    feeling his way, they were at work.

    In Siberia, in British East Africa, in Upper Burmah, engineers of the
    Forrester Construction Company had tamed, shackled and bridged great
    rivers. In the Soudan they had thrown up ramparts against the Nile.
    Along the coasts of South America they had cast the rays of the
    Forrester revolving light upon the face of the waters of both the
    South Atlantic and the Pacific.

    They were of all ages, from the boys who had never before looked
    through a transit except across the college campus, to sun-tanned,
    fever-haunted veterans who, for many years, had fought Nature where
    she was most stubborn, petulant and cruel. They had seen a tidal-wave
    crumple up a breakwater which had cost them a half-year of labor, and
    slide it into the ocean. They had seen swollen rivers, drunk with the
    rains, trip bridges by the ankles and toss them on the banks, twisted
    and sprawling; they had seen a tropical hurricane overturn a
    half-finished light-house as gayly as a summer breeze upsets a
    rocking-chair; they had fought with wild beasts, they had fought with
    wild men, with Soudanese of the Desert, with Federated Sons of Labor,
    with Yaqui Indians, and they had seen cholera, sleeping-sickness and
    the white man's gin turn their compounds into pest-camps and
    crematories.

    Of these things Mr. Forrester, in the twenty-seven-story Forrester
    sky-scraper, where gray-coated special policemen and elevator-starters
    touched their caps to him, had seen nothing. He regarded these
    misadventures by flood and field only as obstacles to his carrying out
    in the time stipulated a business contract. He accepted them patiently
    as he would a strike of the workmen on the apartment-house his firm
    was building on Fifty-ninth Street.

    Sometimes, in order to better show the progress they were making, his
    engineers sent him from strange lands photographs of their work. At
    these, for a moment, he would glance curiously, at the pictures of
    naked, dark-skinned coolies in turbans, of elephants dragging iron
    girders, _his_ iron girders; and perhaps he would wonder if the man
    in the muddy boots and the heavy sun hat was McKenzie. His interest
    went no further than that; his imagination was not stirred.

    Sometimes McKenzie returned and, in evening dress, dined with him at
    his up-town club, or at a fashionable restaurant, where the senses of
    the engineer were stifled by the steam heat, the music and the scent
    of flowers; where, through a joyous mist of red candle-shades and
    golden champagne, he once more looked upon women of his own color. It
    was not under such conditions that Mr. Forrester could expect to know
    the real McKenzie. This was not the McKenzie who, two months before,
    was fighting death on a diet of fruit salts, and who, against the sun,
    wore a bath-towel down his spinal column. On such occasions Mr.
    Forrester wanted to know if, with native labor costing but a few yards
    of cotton and a bowl of rice, the new mechanical rivet-drivers were
    not an extravagance. How, he would ask, did salt water and a sweating
    temperature of one hundred and five degrees act upon the new anti-rust
    paint? That was what he wanted to know.

    Once one of his young lieutenants, inspired by a marvellous dinner,
    called to him across the table: "You remember, sir, that light-house
    we put up in the Persian Gulf? The Consul at Aden told me, this last
    trip, that before that light was there the wrecks on the coast
    averaged fifteen a year and the deaths from drowning over a hundred.
    You will be glad to hear that since your light went up, three years
    ago, there have been only two wrecks and no deaths."

    Mr. Forrester nodded gravely.

    "I remember," he said. "That was the time we made the mistake of
    sending cement through the Canal instead of around the Cape, and the
    tolls cost us five thousand dollars."

    It was not that Mr. Forrester weighed the loss of the five thousand
    dollars against a credit of lives saved. It was rather that he was not
    in the life-saving business. Like all his brother captains, he was,
    in a magnificent way, mechanically charitable. For institutions that
    did make it a business to save life he wrote large checks. But he
    never mixed charity and business. In what he was doing in the world he
    either was unable to see, or was not interested in seeing, what was
    human, dramatic, picturesque. When he forced himself to rest from his
    labor, his relaxation was the reading of novels of romance, of
    adventure--novels that told of strange places and strange peoples.
    Between the after-dinner

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