Under the Mikado's flag

Once in the courtyard of the German hotel, Gilbert did not stop to consider the situation. He knew that the Russian soldiers were in front of the place, and his only chance of safety lay in flight to the rear.

Running as rapidly as he could with the satchel, which was tightly packed and heavy, he passed to one side of the stables, and entered a small alleyway leading to a back street. The alleyway was littered with rubbish, and he went down twice, tearing his clothing in several places, and scratching his left hand.

“This is certainly no picnic,” he muttered, as he picked himself up for the second time. “But they shan’t catch me—not if I know it!”

He had the “lay of the land” fairly well in his head, and tried to take as straight a course as possible for the Chinese furniture shop. But this was not easy, for many streets in Port Arthur are crooked and end in unexpected places. More than this, he had to be on a constant lookout for more of the Russian soldiery.

Presently he reached a street that was apparently deserted, all of the residents having gone to bed. Being now almost out of wind, he dropped into a walk.

“I reckon I’ve thrown them off the track,” he told himself, and then, coming to the dark entrance to a shop, set his bag down to rest for a few minutes.

All was quiet in the city. Thanks to the delay occasioned by Herr Schaumberg, the Russians who had visited the German hotel had failed to get on the young American’s track.

Having gotten back his wind, Gilbert picked up his bag once again. As he did this, a burly form loomed up out of the semi-darkness around a corner.

“Ho there! Stop!” came in the voice of a Russian policeman. And he strode toward Gilbert, club in hand.

Gilbert felt that it would be useless to run, for the policeman would surely shoot at him. At once he resolved to play a trick on the officer of the law.

“Thank goodness you have arrived,” he gasped. “Can you catch them?”

“Catch them?” queried the policeman. “Who?”

“The men who were following me. See, there they go, the rascals! I might have lost my bag and my money.”

“Were they Chinese?”

“They must have been—it was almost too dark to see. There’s another of them!”

Gilbert pointed to a distant corner with his hand and sank down as if exhausted. The policeman stared at him for an instant.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the officer of the law, as he drew his pistol. “Stay here till I return,” and off he went on a run.

The moment the officer had turned the corner the ex-lieutenant started on a dead run in the opposite direction. Having rested, he was able to make fairly good time, and soon put four squares between himself and the policeman. Then he dropped once again into a walk, but now kept a sharp lookout on all sides for the possible appearance of another enemy.

Before he reached the Chinese quarter of the town he heard a tramping at a distance. More soldiers had arrived, including some Cossack cavalry, who went clattering loudly over the pavements.

“So you get back, no trouble,” said Jiru Siko, when he appeared. “Much glad to see dat,” and the face of the little brown man showed his sincerity.

“But I had a whole lot of trouble,” answered Gilbert, and told his story. “Port Arthur is altogether too hot to hold me much longer.”

“Very bad—bad for American—bad for poor son of Nippon,” was the reply. “Glad to go soon.”

“Yes, I’ll be glad to get out myself. But we’ll have to be very careful, Siko.”

“Yes, yes; go like mice—the Russian cat can’t catch him!” And the Japanese smiled knowingly.

“Are you going to take your wife and children along?”

“Wife and chillen go already—Russians no stop women. They meet Jiru Siko on boat—other women, too—men go, you and me, altogether.”

“I’m glad we won’t have the women and children along. It’s going to be no easy matter to get out of the city.”

“I show Master Pennington trick—you watch. Now go sleep—no sleep next night—go on boat, maybe fight.”

“Well, I’m tired enough to go to sleep,” answered Gilbert, and in less than half an hour he was in the land of dreams, despite the dangers which surrounded him.

When Gilbert awoke it was broad daylight. Looking out of the window he saw that a light snow was falling, which a keen, penetrating wind was blowing in several directions.

“This won’t make traveling very pleasant,” he thought. “But it may make it easier for us to escape.”

By looking at his watch he found it was after ten o’clock, showing that he had slept much longer than usual. Getting up, he found himself as fresh as ever and tremendously hungry. He was glad to see one of the Chinamen come in with some fresh bread, coffee, and a couple of deliciously cooked chops.

“See here, John, I want to pay you for these,” said he, and insisted upon giving the Celestial a ruble, for which the fellow was extremely grateful. The Chinese in Port Arthur had never fared well under Russian rule, and now their situation was worse than ever, for the followers of the Czar knew they would do all in their power to help the Japanese.

From the Chinaman Gilbert learned that Jiru Siko had gone off to make arrangements for leaving Port Arthur, and would not be back much before nightfall. There was nothing to do but to wait, and the young American made himself as comfortable as possible in the meantime.

It was after six o’clock when the Japanese returned, and at once he and his companions held a long conference. Then he came to Gilbert.

“Go now,” said he. “You got pistol?”

“Yes,” was the answer, and the ex-lieutenant produced the weapon, loaded and ready for use. It had been his companion during the campaign in China, and he knew he could depend upon it.

“No shoot quick,” went on Jiru Siko. “Shoot only when can’t help.”

“I understand, and I don’t want to shoot anybody if it can be avoided,” returned Gilbert.

The snow was coming down thickly, and the wind was blowing strongly when Gilbert and eight others of the party left the furniture shop. At the same time another party of seven left the quarters under the storehouse, but they went off in another direction.

The course was through a dirty, narrow street of the Chinese quarter, and then to a row of stables, where stood a number of carts piled high with boxes and intrenching tools.

“Hide in the carts,” explained Jiru Siko. “Carts go out of city to-night, sure. Be careful, no noise.”

He went with the young American, and in a few minutes both were secreted in one of the carts, between two packing cases loaded with ammunition. On top of them were a number of shovels and picks and over the whole a rough tarpaulin, to keep off the snow.

Once hidden in the carts, none of the party dared to speak excepting in the faintest of whispers. All waited patiently for about half an hour, when several Russian cart-drivers and hostlers appeared, bringing with them a number of horses. The men were talking in a boisterous manner, and were evidently dissatisfied with the task before them.

“We could wait until daylight just as well,” grumbled one. “To drive out in such a snowstorm and on such a road is not pleasant.”

“True, Pasof but orders are orders,” came from a second. “And the sooner we arrive at Chic-yang the better for us. So hurry along.”

The horses were soon hooked fast to the carts, and then, mounting the seats, the drivers started up their teams with loud cracks of their whips and curses long and deep.

At the first jounce over the rough pavements Gilbert felt that the ride was to be anything but pleasant. But that shaking up was as nothing to what followed, and he had to brace himself between the boxes with all his strength to prevent some bones from being crushed. Up and down went the cart, in and out of holes and ruts, the snow sifting in at times and down the young American’s neck, in spite of the fact that he had buttoned his coat tightly around him. It was intensely cold, and soon his feet seemed to be more than half-frozen.

“How much of this have we got to stand?” he whispered to his companion.

“Not much—soon we leave city we leave cart,” was Jiru Siko’s answer. He was suffering as much as Gilbert, but uttered no complaint.

A moment later the cart went into a hole with a jounce that threatened to break an axle. Part of the load began to slip back, and in alarm the driver leaped down to readjust it.

The movement brought the man close to Gilbert’s hiding-place, and as the end of the tarpaulin was raised the ex-lieutenant felt almost certain that he would be discovered.

But the discovery did not come, and having shoved two of the cases back into place, and readjusted several ropes which bound them, the driver moved on once more.

That jounce proved the last, and soon after this the cart struck a hard and fairly smooth dirt road, where riding for those in hiding was much easier.

“We out of Port Arthur now,” whispered Jiru Siko. “Leave cart soon.”

“What about the others?”

“They leave, too—all go to old house on road to water.”

After this nothing was said for fully ten minutes. The cart was now moving along at a fair rate of speed, and the driver was puffing away contentedly at a short pipe between his teeth, and paying scant attention to the load behind.

“Now we go,” whispered Jiru Siko, and worked his way noiselessly to the rear of the cart. Gilbert went with him, and in a moment more both dropped into the road. Then, hand in hand, they ran out of sight in the darkness, and the cart rumbled on, the driver never once suspecting that he had been carrying passengers.

The house the Japanese had in mind was a good half mile away. The road lay over a barren field, now covered with several inches of snow.

“It is certainly cold to-night,” said Gilbert, when he felt at liberty to speak. “We’ll have no fun of it when we reach the water front.”

“Cold make Russians stay in by fire,” answered his companion. “No see us—so better for boat.”

“That is true, but—— What does that mean?”

Gilbert broke off short as a pistol shot rang out at a distance. Then came a yell in Russian, followed by a cry of alarm in Japanese.

“Somebody found out!” cried Jiru Siko. “Come, we must run now, or get caught sure!”