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lives by flattery,’” Burnham said coldly, “‘works harder than the peasant.’”
    â€œSir.” Tun bowed a third time. “You have but to express your wishes.”
    â€œMy man will explain,” Burnham said.
    Feng stiffened for a moment, but quickly saw that this was Burnham’s joke; he turned to Tun and said, “Now see here. We require the wheel to be straightened and weak spokes replaced, and then a new front tire.”
    â€œWithout delay,” Tun said. He knelt to examine the catastrophe. “Half an hour,” he said. “Perhaps less.”
    â€œWe shall return,” Burnham said, and to Feng, “Come along.”
    Outside, Feng asked, “Where does the gentleman take me?”
    Burnham pointed across the street. “My horse needs oats.”
    Feng hung his head. “But I cannot. This passes the bounds.”
    â€œI need to drink tea,” Burnham said. “While drinking tea I need someone to chat with. There is no reason why you should not enjoy a bowl of pork-liver-rice-soup while you oblige me. Come. We will drink and peck.”
    Feng heaved a great moan, and followed Burnham to the dingy restaurant.
    It was the kind of a place Burnham had always loved: dark, dirty, the wooden tables and stools worn shiny even in the gloom, the proprietor bald, the customers shabby. There was, as this foreigner entered, the customary sharp, total hush, followed by the customary awkward resumption of low gossip. Burnham and Feng took a table and ordered. Waiting, Burnham eavesdropped. A man who could not eavesdrop was not truly at home in any language. The customers were speaking of money, or the lack of it; of the Communists, or the lack of them; and of heating, or the lack of it.
    Feng devoured his meat soup and several cups of tea in what seemed a few seconds. Burnham clucked and ordered another for him. Embarrassed, Feng asked, “Will the gentleman not?”
    â€œNo. I have eaten, and sworn a vow not to stuff myself like a foreign pig.”
    â€œVows must be kept.”
    â€œYou too have sworn vows?”
    Feng made big teeth. “I vowed to kill five Japanese for my father, and five for my mother.”
    â€œAnd did you keep that vow?”
    â€œI am one short.”
    Well, I may be able to help you, Burnham thought. “And the enemy has departed.”
    â€œThe Lord of all under heaven will forgive me.”
    â€œAnd what of the future?”
    Feng shrugged. “One must wait.”
    â€œWhat is the gossip?”
    â€œOh, the city will fall. It is already sold.” With two fingers Feng made the sign for the number eight.
    Burnham nodded recognition. The Red Army, after a reorganization in 1937, had become the Eighth Route Army. They, and later the New Fourth Army, had fought hard against the Japanese; men and units had died in their tracks if need be. Some of the Nationalists also had fought well, but more often whole regiments vanished like dew in the heat of war. It was a bitter joke, perhaps a slander but much circulated, that the only time Chiang Kai-shek attacked was when he attacked the Eighth Route and New Fourth. Then too he was beaten.
    The proprietor slid a fresh bowl before Feng.
    â€œAnd how do you know that the city is sold?” Burnham asked.
    â€œWell”—Feng addressed his soup more sedately this time—“perhaps two months ago the government in Nanking announced that Peking would hold out to the last man.” He waved his chopsticks. “That was customary and meaningless. The gentleman surely knows about such matters.”
    â€œIt is international practice.”
    â€œSo, so. What is more important, General Fu said the same thing last month.”
    â€œThat is Fu Tso-yi.”
    â€œThat is Fu Tso-yi. A Shansi man and a shrewd country boy, though being a general he is now over fifty.” Feng smacked his lips. “Words cannot express the savor of this soup. Chu kan