DROPPED in at my friend Dr. Lamison’s rooms, for I had been dull and bored all day, and Lamison, partly by reason of his profession, partly because of his own odd humor and keen insight, is a delightful companion. To my disgust he was not alone, but deep in an animated discussion with an elderly gentleman of pleasant appearance. Being in no mood to talk to strangers I was about to make my excuses and retire, but Lamison signed to me to remain. “Let me present my friend Robertson, Mr. Gage,” he said politely, as we both bowed with due formality. “Robertson,” he continued, addressing me, “you will be interested in what this gentleman has to say on the Philippines—he has spent some years out there.”
Mr. Gage smiled reminiscently. “Yes, I spent some little time in the Islands. In fact, I am just on the point of going there now, and am very sorry I shall not see them again.”
“What?” I asked. “If you're going, why do you say you will never see the place again?”
Lamison broke in abruptly. “That is a long story. Let’s go on with the question we had in hand. You were saying that the Malays are singularly shrewd and cunning.”
Mr. Gage brightened visibly. “They are, indeed. Now, when I was in Manila,”—and he launched into a highly instructive lecture on the Malay and all his works, talking rapidly and tersely; his phrases full of vigor and originality, his descriptions vivid and picturesque; in fact, it has rarely been my good fortune to listen to so brilliant a conversationalist—though conversation it could hardly be called, for by common consent he had the floor to himself.
Occasionally I asked a question, or Lamison punctuated the discourse with nods of approval as he flicked his cigar ashes on the floor. From the Philippines we wandered to the Chinese empire and its destiny. Gage had spent two years in Tientsin and Hong Kong and was as well informed and interesting as man could be. His observation was phenomenal, and his memory likewise, and he had a way of presenting his facts that was positively evocative. I felt, after listening to him, that the recollections were my own, so distinctly did he force his mental pictures into my consciousness. He was eminently moderate in all his views, avoiding extremes and holding a mean of charity and common sense that is, to say the least, unusual.
A flash of lightning that stared suddenly through the windows, and was followed by a terrific thunder clap, made us start and pause. Mr. Gage arose and, going to the window, looked out into the murky night, remarking as he did so on the suddenness and violence of storms in the tropics.
I seized the occasion to nod to Lamison. “What a brilliant chap,” I said. “I never heard a man express himself so well and sanely—who is he, anyway?”
“A gentleman and a scholar, also my guest for the present,” my host answered. “So you think him well balanced?”
“Eminently so,” I said heartily. “Not many men could state the facts of an international feud with such moderation.”
Dr. Lamison smiled a strange, grave smile.
Our companion came back from the window whereon the heavy wash of the rain was now playing, and refilled his glass from the pitcher of shandygaff.
“So you are just on the point of making your first trip to the East?” Lamison asked, to my unutterable amazement.
Gage nodded. “Yes. In a few days I shall have decided.”
I looked blankly at him.
“Then I suppose you will have your quarrel with the family by next week?” my friend went on.
Gage sighed deeply. “Yes, I shall have to go through with it again. Fortunately the worst stages come first, and I have been feeling the after effects for some days already.”
Lamison looked at my confusion with amusement.
“Tell Robertson about it all, old man,” he said. “He is perfectly trustworthy, and yours is such an interesting story. To begin with, tell him how old you are.”
Gage laughed, a quick boyish chuckle, and sprang up gaily, stretching himself before the sparkling fire. “Just three and twenty,” he answered hilariously.
I looked at him carefully. His iron-gray hair, the infinitesimal tracery of lines that covered his face and hands like a fine-spun web, and the slight stiffness of his joints, in spite of his quick and rather graceful movements, bespoke a man in the later fifties. I understood now. He was doubtless one of the curious cases of mania which the doctor was constantly picking up and studying.
“Tell him how it happened,” Lamison suggested.