CANTON
Chinese in Canton are just what the Chinese one ordinarily sees in the United States are not. As Canton is different, so the Chinese in Canton are different. The arrival of a steamer is usually the signal for an onslaught by howling, cursing men and boys who appear to be either direct descendants or near relatives of the river pirates hiding along the banks of the Chukiang River on the road to Canton.
They come by way of land and they come by way of water. Some hop nimbly from sampan to sampan; others climb the railing officially considered as being an adequate barrier against trespassers. They screech and yell in such a ferocious manner that the more timid among the passengers turn pale and wonder whether they have survived the voyage from Hongkong only to meet a greater danger in Canton.
The crowd of yelling, half-naked Chinese is reinforced by others attracted by the din which silences even the brassy clatter of native musical instruments on the funeral boats drifting along in midstream.
Some of the natives finally succeed in reaching the side of the steamer, and as the passengers, in doubtful mood, cautiously walk down the gangplank, the Chinese fall upon them, and for a while it appears that a race riot of respectable proportions is brewing.
Twenty-Three
