Jack London
In Yeddo Bay
From "Dutch Courage and Other Stories"
Somewhere along Theater Street he had lost it. He remembered being hustled
somewhat roughly on the bridge over one of the canals that cross that busy
thoroughfare. Possibly some slant-eyed, light-fingered pickpocket was even then
enjoying the fifty-odd yen his purse had contained. And then again, he thought,
he might have lost it himself, just lost it carelessly.
Hopelessly, and for the twentieth time, he searched in all his pockets for
the missing purse. It was not there. His hand lingered in his empty hip-pocket,
and he woefully regarded the voluble and vociferous restaurant-keeper, who
insanely clamored: "Twenty-five sen! You pay now! Twenty-five sen!"
"But my purse!" the boy said. "I tell you I've lost it somewhere."
Whereupon the restaurant-keeper lifted his arms indignantly and shrieked:
"Twenty-five sen! Twenty-five sen! You pay now!"
Quite a crowd had collected, and it was growing embarrassing for Alf
Davis.
It was so ridiculous and petty, Alf thought. Such a disturbance about
nothing! And, decidedly, he must be doing something. Thoughts of diving wildly
through that forest of legs, and of striking out at whomsoever opposed him,
flashed through his mind; but, as though divining his purpose, one of the
waiters, a short and chunky chap with an evil-looking cast in one eye, seized
him by the arm.
"You pay now! You pay now! Twenty-five sen!" yelled the proprietor, hoarse
with rage.
Alf was red in the face, too, from mortification; but he resolutely set
out on another exploration. He had given up the purse, pinning his last hope on
stray coins. In the little change-pocket of his coat he found a ten- sen piece
and five-copper sen; and remembering having recently missed a ten-sen piece, he
cut the seam of the pocket and resurrected the coin from the depths of the
lining. Twenty-five sen he held in his hand, the sum required to pay for the
supper he had eaten. He turned them over to the proprietor, who counted them,
grew suddenly calm, and bowed obsequiously — in fact, the whole crowd bowed
obsequiously and melted away.
Alf Davis was a young sailor, just turned sixteen, on board the Annie
Mine, an American sailing-schooner, which had run into Yokohama to ship its
season's catch of skins to London. And in this, his second trip ashore, he was
beginning to snatch his first puzzling glimpses of the Oriental mind. He
laughed when the bowing and kotowing was over, and turned on his heel to
confront another problem. How was he to get aboard ship? It was eleven o'clock
at night, and there would be no ship's boats ashore, while the outlook for
hiring a native boatman, with nothing but empty pockets to draw upon, was not
particularly inviting.
Keeping a sharp lookout for shipmates, he went down to the pier. At
Yokohama there are no long lines of wharves. The shipping lies out at anchor,
enabling a few hundred of the short-legged people to make a livelihood by
carrying passengers to and from the shore.
A dozen sampan men and boys hailed Alf and offered their services. He
selected the most favorable-looking one, an old and beneficent-appearing man
with a withered leg. Alf stepped into his sampan and sat down. It was quite
dark and he could not see what the old fellow was doing, though he evidently
was doing nothing about shoving off and getting under way. At last he limped
over and peered into Alf's face.
"Ten sen," he said.
"Yes, I know, ten sen," Alf answered carelessly. "But hurry up. American
schooner."
"Ten sen. You pay now," the old fellow insisted.
Alf felt himself grow hot all over at the hateful words "pay now." "You
take me to American schooner; then I pay," he said.
But the man stood up patiently before him, held out his hand, and said,
"Ten sen. You pay now."
Alf tried to explain. He had no money. He had lost his purse. But he would
pay. As soon as he got aboard the American schooner, then he would pay. No; he
would not even go aboard the American schooner. He would call to his shipmates,
and they would give the sampan man the ten sen first. After that he would go
aboard. So it was all right, of course.
To all of which the beneficent-appearing old man replied: "You pay now.
Ten sen." And, to make matters worse, the other sampan men squatted on the pier
steps, listening.
Alf, chagrined and angry, stood up to step ashore. But the old fellow laid
a detaining hand on his sleeve. "You give shirt now. I take you 'Merican
schooner," he proposed.
Then it was that all of Alf's American independence flamed up in his
breast. The Anglo-Saxon has a born dislike of being imposed upon, and to Alf
this was sheer robbery! Ten sen was equivalent to six American cents, while his
shirt, which was of good quality and was new, had cost him two dollars.
He turned his back on the man without a word, and went out to the end of
the pier, the crowd, laughing with great gusto, following at his heels. The
majority of them were heavy-set, muscular fellows, and the July night being one
of sweltering heat, they were clad in the least possible raiment. The
water-people of any race are rough and turbulent, and it struck Alf that to be
out at midnight on a pier-end with such a crowd of wharfmen, in a big Japanese
city, was not as safe as it might be.
One burly fellow, with a shock of black hair and ferocious eyes, came up.
The rest shoved in after him to take part in the discussion.
"Give me shoes," the man said. "Give me shoes now. I take you 'Merican
schooner."
Alf shook his head, whereat the crowd clamored that he accept the
proposal. Now the Anglo-Saxon is so constituted that to brow-beat or bully him
is the last way under the sun of getting him to do any certain thing. He will
dare willingly, but he will not permit himself to be driven. So this attempt of
the boatmen to force Alf only aroused all the dogged stubbornness of his race.
The same qualities were in him that are in men who lead forlorn hopes; and
there, under the stars, on the lonely pier, encircled by the jostling and
shouldering gang, he resolved that he would die rather than submit to the
indignity of being robbed of a single stitch of clothing. Not value, but
principle, was at stake.
Then somebody thrust roughly against him from behind. He whirled about
with flashing eyes, and the circle involuntarily gave ground. But the crowd was
growing more boisterous. Each and every article of clothing he had on was
demanded by one or another, and these demands were shouted simultaneously at
the tops of very healthy lungs.
Alf had long since ceased to say anything, but he knew that the situation
was getting dangerous, and that the only thing left to him was to get away. His
face was set doggedly, his eyes glinted like points of steel, and his body was
firmly and confidently poised. This air of determination sufficiently impressed
the boatmen to make them give way before him when he started to walk toward the
shore-end of the pier. But they trooped along beside him and behind him,
shouting and laughing more noisily than ever. One of the youngsters, about
Alf's size and build, impudently snatched his cap from his head; but before he
could put it on his own head, Alf struck out from the shoulder, and sent the
fellow rolling on the stones.
The cap flew out of his hand and disappeared among the many legs. Alf did
some quick thinking; his sailor pride would not permit him to leave the cap in
their hands. He followed in the direction it had sped, and soon found it under
the bare foot of a stalwart fellow, who kept his weight stolidly upon it. Alf
tried to get the cap out by a sudden jerk, but failed. He shoved against the
man's leg, but the man only grunted. It was challenge direct, and Alf accepted
it. Like a flash one leg was behind the man and Alf had thrust strongly with
his shoulder against the fellow's chest. Nothing could save the man from the
fierce vigorousness of the trick, and he was hurled over and backward.
Next, the cap was on Alf's head and his fists were up before him. Then he
whirled about to prevent attack from behind, and all those in that quarter fled
precipitately. This was what he wanted. None remained between him and the shore
end. The pier was narrow. Facing them and threatening with his fist those who
attempted to pass him on either side, he continued his retreat. It was exciting
work, walking backward and at the same time checking that surging mass of men.
But the dark-skinned peoples, the world over, have learned to respect the white
man's fist; and it was the battles fought by many sailors, more than his own
warlike front, that gave Alf the victory.
Where the pier adjoins the shore was the station of the harbor police, and
Alf backed into the electric-lighted office, very much to the amusement of the
dapper lieutenant in charge. The sampan men, grown quiet and orderly, clustered
like flies by the open door, through which they could see and hear what passed.
Alf explained his difficulty in few words, and demanded, as the privilege
of a stranger in a strange land, that the lieutenant put him aboard in the
police-boat. The lieutenant, in turn, who knew all the "rules and regulations"
by heart, explained that the harbor police were not ferrymen, and that the
police-boats had other functions to perform than that of transporting belated
and penniless sailor-men to their ships. He also said he knew the sampan men to
be natural-born robbers, but that so long as they robbed within the law he was
powerless. It was their right to collect fares in advance, and who was he to
command them to take a passenger and collect fare at the journey's end? Alf
acknowledged the justice of his remarks, but suggested that while he could not
command he might persuade. The lieutenant was willing to oblige, and went to
the door, from where he delivered a speech to the crowd. But they, too, knew
their rights, and, when the officer had finished, shouted in chorus their
abominable "Ten sen! You pay now! You pay now!"
"You see, I can do nothing," said the lieutenant, who, by the way, spoke
perfect English. "But I have warned them not to harm or molest you, so you will
be safe, at least. The night is warm and half over. Lie down somewhere and to
sleep. I would permit you to sleep here in the office, were it not against the
rules and regulations."
Alf thanked him for his kindness and courtesy; but the sampan men had
aroused all his pride of race and doggedness, and the problem could not be
solved that way. To sleep out the night on the stones was an acknowledgment of
defeat.
"The sampan men refuse to take me out?"
The lieutenant nodded.
"And you refuse to take me out?"
Again the lieutenant nodded.
"Well, then, it's not in the rules and regulations that you can prevent my
taking myself out?"
The lieutenant was perplexed. "There is no boat," he said.
"That's not the question," Alf proclaimed hotly. "If I take myself out,
everybody's satisfied and no harm done?"
"Yes; what you say is true," persisted the puzzled lieutenant. "But you
cannot take yourself out."
"You just watch me," was the retort.
Down went Alf's cap on the office floor. Right and left he kicked off his
low-cut shoes. Trousers and shirt followed.
"Remember," he said in ringing tones, "I, as a citizen of the United
States, shall hold you, the city of Yokohama, and the government of Japan
responsible for those clothes. Good night."
He plunged through the doorway, scattering the astounded boatmen to either
side, and ran out on the pier. But they quickly recovered and ran after him,
shouting with glee at the new phase the situation had taken on. It was a night
long remembered among the water-folk of Yokohama town. Straight to the end Alf
ran, and, without pause, dived off cleanly and neatly into the water. He struck
out with a lusty, single-overhand stroke till curiosity prompted him to halt
for a moment. Out of the darkness, from where the pier should be, voices were
calling to him.
He turned on his back, floated, and listened.
"All right! All right!" he could distinguish from the babel. "No pay now;
pay bime by! Come back! Come back now; pay bime by!"
"No, thank you;" he called back. "No pay at all. Good night."
Then he faced about in order to locate the Annie Mine. She was fully a
mile away, and in the darkness it was no easy task to get her bearings. First,
he settled upon a blaze of lights which he knew nothing but a man-of-war could
make. That must be the United States war-ship Lancaster. Somewhere to the left
and beyond should be the Annie Mine. But to the left he made out three lights
close together. That could not be the schooner. For the moment he was confused.
He rolled over on his back and shut his eyes, striving to construct a mental
picture of the harbor as he had seen it in daytime. With a snort of
satisfaction he rolled back again. The three lights evidently belonged to the
big English tramp steamer. Therefore the schooner must lie somewhere between
the three lights and the Lancaster. He gazed long and steadily, and there, very
dim and low, but at the point he expected, burned a single light — the
anchorlight of the Annie Mine.
And it was a fine swim under the starshine. The air was warm as the water,
and the water as warm as tepid milk. The good salt taste of it was in his
mouth, the tingling of it along his limbs; and the steady beat of his heart,
heavy and strong, made him glad for living.
But beyond being glorious the swim was uneventful. On the right hand he
passed the many-lighted Lancaster, on the left hand the English tramp, and ere
long the Annie Mine loomed large above him. He grasped the hanging rope-ladder
and drew himself noiselessly on deck. There was no one in sight. He saw a light
in the galley, and knew that the captain's son, who kept the lonely
anchorwatch, was making coffee. Alf went forward to the forecastle. The men
were snoring in their bunks, and in that confined space the heat seemed to him
insufferable. So he put on a thin cotton shirt and a pair of dungaree trousers,
tucked blanket and pillow under his arm, and went up on deck and out on the
forecastle-head.
Hardly had he begun to doze when he was roused by a boat coming alongside
and hailing the anchor-watch. It was the police-boat, and to Alf it was given
to enjoy the excited conversation that ensued. Yes, the captain's son
recognized the clothes. They belonged to Alf Davis, one of the seamen. What had
happened? No; Alf Davis had not come aboard. He was ashore. He was not ashore?
Then he must be drowned. Here both the lieutenant and the captain's son talked
at the same time, and Alf could make out nothing. Then he heard them come
forward and rouse out the crew. The crew grumbled sleepily and said that Alf
Davis was not in the forecastle; whereupon the captain's son waxed indignant at
the Yokohama police and their ways, and the lieutenant quoted rules and
regulations in despairing accents.
Alf rose up from the forecastle-head and extended his hand, saying:
"I guess I'll take those clothes. Thank you for bringing them aboard so
promptly."
"I don't see why he couldn't have brought you aboard inside of them," said
the captain's son.
And the police lieutenant said nothing, though he turned the clothes over
somewhat sheepishly to their rightful owner.
The next day, when Alf started to go ashore, he found himself surrounded
by shouting and gesticulating, though very respectful, sampan men, all
extraordinarily anxious to have him for a passenger. Nor did the one he
selected say, "You pay now," when he entered his boat. When Alf prepared to
step out on to the pier, he offered the man the customary ten sen. But the man
drew himself up and shook his head.
"You all right," he said. "You no pay. You never no pay. You bully boy and
all right."
And for the rest of the Annie Mine's stay in port, the sampan men refused
money at Alf Davis's hand. Out of admiration for his pluck and independence,
they had given him the freedom of the harbor.
1902.
First published in St. Nicholas, v. 30, February 1903
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