'tween-decks of the old tub of a boat; the green-plush seats of a
sleeping-car remind me of the _Kut Sang's_ dining-saloon, and even a
bonfire in an adjacent yard recalls the odour of burned rice on the
galley fire left by the panic-stricken Chinese cook.

I know the very smell of the _Kut Sang_. I caught it last week passing a
ship-chandler's shop, and it set my veins throbbing again with the sense
of conflict, and I caught myself tensing my muscles for a death grapple.
To me the _Kut Sang_ is a personality, a sentient being, with her own
soul and moods and temper, audaciously tossing her bows at the
threatening seas rising to meet her. She is my sea-ghost, and as much a
character to me as Riggs or Thirkle or Dago Red.

The deep, bright red band on her funnel gave her a touch of coquetry, but
she had the drabness of senility; she was worn out, and working, when
she should have gone to the junk pile years before. But her very
antiquity charmed me, for her scars and wrinkles told of hard service in
the China Sea; and there was an air of comfort about her, such as
one finds in an ancient house that has sheltered several generations.

Precious little comfort I had in her, though, which is why I remember
her so well, and why I never shall forget her. If she had made Hong-Kong
in five days, her name would be lost in the memory of countless other
steamers, and there would be no tale to tell. But now she is the
_Kut Sang_, and every time I whisper the two words to myself I live once
more aboard her.

Rajah is with me--inherited, I might say, from Captain Riggs. Perhaps he
keeps my memory keen on the old days, for how could I forget with the
black boy stalking about the house--half the time in his bare feet and
his native costume, which I rather encourage--for his _sarong_ matches
the curtains of my den and adds a bit of colour to my colourless
surroundings.

I am quite sure that if Captain Riggs were still alive he would agree
that the story should begin with my first sight of the missionary and the
little red-headed man, so I will launch the narrative with an account of
how I first met the Rev. Luther Meeker.

He was in the midst of a litter of nondescript baggage on the Manila mole
when I came ashore from a rice-boat that had brought me across the
China Sea from Saigon. The first glance marked him as a missionary, for
he wore a huge crucifix cut out of pink shell, and as he hobbled about on
the embankment it bobbed at