If there was a Yankee bar-keep in HongKong, James Boyle would soon locate him. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik.
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