Gods Men by Pearl S. Buck Read Free Book Online Page A

his chair. “William! What has happened to you?”
    William’s lips moved. “The—the people—a mob—”
    â€œWhat?” Dr. Lane exclaimed. He hurried into the hall and there found his wife sitting upon one of the carved Chinese chairs, looking faint.
    â€œHelen, what—”
    â€œThere was a mob!” she cried. “I thought we couldn’t get away. If it hadn’t been for Lao Li—William and I crowded into the same riksha.”
    â€œWhere was this?” Dr. Lane broke in.
    â€œAt that tailor shop on Hatamen Street, where I always go for William’s clothes. He needs a new suit—”
    â€œWhat did William do?” Dr. Lane demanded. Instinctively he knew that someone had done something. Mobs did not gather without cause.
    Mrs. Lane sobbed. “Nothing—I don’t know! There was a man sleeping against his riksha when we came out—a beggar. William pushed him with his foot; he didn’t kick him. The people sprang at us from every door. Oh, Henry, I want to get right out of here—all of us!”
    He soothed her gently, directing Wang meanwhile to make some tea. “Helen, I quite agree that you should go. The people are very touchy. Don’t go out again, my dear. There might be a real incident.”
    â€œIt was an incident!” she insisted. “If you’d seen their frightful faces—where’s William? Henry, you must find William! They pushed him down into the dust, and if Lao Li hadn’t helped him, they would have trampled him to death.”
    â€œGo into the living room and wait for your tea,” Dr. Lane said. He was very much disturbed, but it would not do to show it. He had told William, how often, never to touch a Chinese. They considered it an indignity to be touched. Once, he remembered, in a New Year’s crowd upon the street when he had taken the children out to see the sights, William in six-year-old impatience had pulled the queue of a tall old gentleman standing in front of him, and the man had turned on them in a fury. Dr. Lane had been compelled to apologize again and again, and only William’s youth had saved them from serious trouble.
    He searched for William and found him upstairs in his room, changing his clothes. He had put a bit of gauze and some sticking plaster on his forehead.
    â€œDid you disinfect that cut?” Dr. Lane asked.
    â€œYes, sir, thoroughly,” William said.
    The boy’s face was still white, Dr. Lane noticed. “You had better go downstairs and have some tea with your mother. You look rather shaken.”
    â€œI do feel so, a bit.”
    â€œNever touch a Chinese. Do you remember?” Dr. Lane said with unusual sternness.
    â€œIt was a beggar, leaning against the riksha.”
    â€œNever mind who he is or what he is doing. Never touch a Chinese!” Dr. Lane repeated more loudly.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    William turned his back on his father and began tying a fresh tie. His hands were trembling and he stood so that his father could not see him. The people had turned on him, ignorant common people who did not know his name! He, American and white, the son of privilege, had been beset by poor and filthy people. He would never feel safe again. He wanted to get away from Peking, from China, from these hordes of people—
    â€œYou might have been killed,” his father said.
    William could not deny it. It was true. He might have been trampled upon by vile bare feet. Lao Li had lifted him up and shielded him until he could get to the riksha where his mother was shrieking. They had clung together in the riksha while Lao Li, bending his head, butted his way through the crowd and William had stared out at the angry people, pressing against the wheels. He would never forget the faces, never as long as he lived.
    The next week with his mother and sisters he left Peking.
    The northern spring drew on. The duststorms subsided, the willow