13

The　Tangs　were　delighted　about　the　Fang　family's　troubles　over　Lotus　Charm.　To　them　it　was　incomprehensible　that　Pao　Ching　wouldn't　sell　Lotus　Charm.　The　man　was　obviously　crazy.　And　imagine　giving　away　money　to　keep　a　girl.　“Just　a　fool,"　squeaked　Mrs.　Tang.

Pao　Ching　wasted　no　time　in　making　arrangements　to　send　money　to　Commander　Wang.　He　was　a　man　of　his　word,　and　he　was　fearful　of　the　consequences　if　he　delayed.　But　he　was　woefully　short　of　cash.　When　he　asked　Mrs.　Fang　if　she　would　allow　him　to　sell　her　jewels,　she　shouted,　“Nonsense！It's　none　of　my　concern.　You　know　that.　As　I　told　your　brother,　Lotus　Charm　is　herself,　and　I　am　myself.　I　promised　not　to　stick　my　nose　in　her　affairs.　But　give　my　jewelry　away　for　her？Ha！Ha！"

Pao　Ching　kept　a　smile　on　his　face　with　difficulty.　“But　—　you　—　well,　you　don't　quite　understand."

“I　don't　understand！"　Mrs.　Fang　was　intensely　scornful.　“Do　[WT5BX]you[WT5BZ]　understand？Other　people　make　money　on　their　daughters,　but　you　wooden　head,　you　spend　money　on　this　no-good　girl.　Of　course,　if　you　understand,　you　don't　have　to　worry　about　my　understanding."

“I　meant　you　don't　understand　this　particular　situation　—　the　danger　we　are　in."

“Maybe　I　understand　and　maybe　I　don't,　but　I　am　not　giving　you　a　cent."

Pao　Ching　asked　Lotus　Charm　to　contribute　something.　She　had　a　few　jewels.　She　went　to　her　jewel　box,　and　brought　them　to　him,　cupped　in　her　hands.　He　saw　her　eyes　were　wet,　and　his　heart　twisted　with　shame.　“Please　don't　weep　for　a　few　jewels,　dear　child,"　he　said.　“When　times　are　good　again,　I'll　buy　you　better　ones."

Pao　Ching　had　some　money　put　away,　but　he　did　not　want　to　touch　it,　except　in　an　emergency.　He　saved　on　a　regular　schedule,　and　to　break　this　schedule　was　like　cutting　his　own　throat,　so　strong　was　his　discipline.　Besides,　he　rationalized,　he　wanted　the　whole　family　to　take　a　share　of　this　responsibility.　That　was　one　of　the　privileges　of　belonging　to　a　family.　As　for　Lotus　Charm,　she　was　growing　up,　and　she　above　all　should　learn　to　be　levelheaded　about　business　matters.

Finally　the　money　was　raised　and　dispatched　by　trusted　messengers.　And　from　that　moment　the　Fang　family　was　divided　into　three　parts.

Mrs.　Fang　was　a　part　all　by　herself.　Lotus　Charm　and　Useless　Fang　were　another　part　in　opposition　to　the　rest　of　the　family.　Pao　Ching　and　Phoenix　Girl　remained　aloof　and　neutral.　It　was　rather　like　a　divided　parliament,　he　thought　sometimes.

Pao　Ching　wanted　to　end　the　tension.　One　day　he　approached　Lotus　Charm,　and　asked　her　to　be　kind　to　her　mother.　“That　will　bring　the　whole　family　together　again,"　he　said　hopefully.

Lotus　Charm　nodded　assent.　She　waited　until　her　mother　was　sober,　then　went　and　knelt　at　her　side　and　touched　her　hand,　smiling　at　the　woman　like　an　innocent　child.　“Mother,"　she　pleaded,　“don't　always　treat　me　like　a　stranger.　I　have　no　parents　of　my　own.　You　are　my　mother　now.　You　have　always　been　my　mother.　Why　do　you　dislike　me？"

Mrs.　Fang　did　not　answer.　She　sat　like　a　waxen　Buddha,　her　eyes　staring　at　nothing.　She　was　apparently　determined　not　to　listen.　Once　again　Lotus　Charm　had　humiliated　herself　for　nothing.　Well,　it　was　the　last　time.　She　closed　her　eyes　and　bowed　her　head.

With　angry　thoughts　in　her　heart　she　looked　up　at　the　plump　pallid　face,　and　started　back　in　surprise.　Mrs.　Fang　was　weeping.　Slowly　the　tears　dropped　from　the　corners　of　her　eyes.　Then　Mrs.　Fang　bowed　her　head,　as　if　she　did　not　want　Lotus　Charm　to　see　her　weeping.

Lotus　Charm　got　up　to　go,　but　Mrs.　Fang　called　her　back.　She　spoke　softly　with　her　head　bowed.　“I　don't　dislike　you,　child.　Please　don't　think　—　don't　think　I　wanted　to　throw　you　away.　Oh　no,　but　my　poor　child,　you　cannot　escape.　You　know　the　saying　—　`Troubadours　are　without　luck.'　That　means　you　cannot　escape　your　fate.　Knowing　this,　what　did　I　do,　but　decide　it　would　be　better　if　you　went　to　a　nice　place,　where　everything　was　luxurious,　and　we　poor　old　people　could　have　some　money　as　well.　You　wouldn't　want　your　father　and　me　to　lose　out　—　after　all　the　money　we　have　spent　on　you."　She　raised　her　eyes　then,　and　looked　steadily　at　Lotus　Charm.

The　girl　was　standing　looking　down　on　her.　Her　hands　were　on　her　rounded　hips,　her　small　fists　clenched.　She　was　remembering　what　Madame　Commander　Wang　had　said.　With　white　lips　she　said,　“I　may　be　doomed　to　ill　luck,　but　if　I　do　not　humble　myself　I　don't　have　to　become　a　concubine."

Mrs.　Fang　just　wiped　her　tears,　and　took　another　drink　from　the　bottle.

Lotus　Charm　felt　better　after　having　talked　to　her　mother.　But　she　was　disappointed　that　her　mother　hadn't　softened　toward　her.　She　wanted　a　mother's　love.

That　night　she　resolved　that　if　words　wouldn't　convince　her　mother,　actions　might.　She　would　have　to　show　the　family　she　was　a　grown-up　person.　But　how？A　sudden　idea　came.　She　got　out　of　bed,　went　to　the　chest　of　drawers　and　took　out　her　stamp　album.　After　taking　a　long　tearful　look　at　it,　she　went　outside　the　room,　and　dumped　it　in　the　garbage　can.　Stamp-collecting　was　a　waste　of　time,　for　a　girl　who　wanted　to　be　serious　and　useful.　But　how　to　start　on　her　new　life？She　hadn't　the　vaguest　idea.　All　the　rest　of　the　night　she　tossed　in　her　bed.　Again　and　again　she　wanted　to　go　out　and　retrieve　her　precious　stamp　album,　but　she　would　not　allow　herself　to　do　it.

Pao　Ching　received　a　request　from　the　government's　Department　of　Propaganda.　Would　he　and　his　troupe　work　for　the　cause？The　residents　of　Chungking　and　the　province　blamed　the　refugees　for　bringing　the　war　to　them.　The　government's　idea　was　to　unite　all　China　in　a　solidarity　movement,　and　give　courage　to　the　people　of　Chungking,　by　convincing　them　that　they　were　the　same　as　the　people　from“down　river,"　as　they　called　the　refugees.

Pao　Ching　was　overwhelmed　when　he　read　the　official　request.　He　was　shocked　though　when　Jeweled　Lute　asked,　“How　much　does　the　government　pay？"　Pao　Ching　knew　that　the　government　often　did　not　even　pay　carfare.　When　she　heard　this　Jeweled　Lute　tossed　her　shoulders　and　made　a　face.　Mr.　and　Mrs.　Tang　shook　their　heads.　“Nothing　doing."

“But　I　will　pay　Jeweled　Lute's　carfare,"　said　Pao　Ching　desperately.　They　laughed　and　laughed,　as　if　it　were　a　huge　joke.　When　she　had　regained　her　breath,　Mrs.　Tang　said,　“You　have　money,　Pao　Ching,　our　fine　friend.　You　are　rich.　We　poor　people　have　to　work　to　eat.　If　we　do　this　once　for　nothing,　they'll　come　again.　But　you　—　you're　so　rich　that　you　gave　money　away　to　keep　your　daughter,　instead　of　selling　her.　How　lucky　you　are　with　all　that　money."

Pao　Ching　left　them　still　guffawing.　Back　at　the　hotel　he　told　Lotus　Charm　what　had　happened.　“I'll　come,"　she　said,　“I　want　to　do　something　worthwhile."

Then　came　the　problem.　What　should　they　sing？Most　of　their　patriotic　ballads　were　too　ancient　to　inspire　modern　audiences.　Pao　Ching　hummed　through　one　or　two,　but　they　seemed　inadequate　and　unsuitable.　Lotus　Charm　agreed.　Lately　she　had　been　singing　love　ballads.　When　she　tried　the　patriotic　classics　they　sounded　meaningless;　and　how　could　she　use　love　songs　for　propaganda？

Pao　Ching　began　to　practice.　He　read　the　song,　and　began　to　play　the　air　with　one　hand　on　the　lute.　He　could　not　read　all　the　words,　but　he　struggled　on,　trying　to　match　words　to　music.　Whenever　he　found　a　word　that　fitted　he　was　delighted.　“Oh！I　got　one！"　he　cried.

Useless　Fang　was　asleep　in　the　corner.　The　noise　awoke　him.　He　sat　up　in　bed　rubbing　his　eyes　and　staring　at　his　brother's　bald　pate　shining　in　the　flickering　light　of　the　oil　lamp.　“Why　don't　you　get　to　bed,　younger　brother？"　he　protested.　“And　isn't　it　warm　enough　without　the　lamp？"

Pao　Ching　explained　that　he　was　studying　the　ballad　of　Ning　Wu　Gate,　which　told　how　a　general　and　his　entire　family　died　for　China.　He　was　going　to　sing　it　to　bring　unity　to　the　nation.

Useless　Fang　lay　back　on　the　pillow.　“I　thought　you　had　caught　a　mosquito.　It　sounded　like　that."　Pao　Ching　went　on　playing,　searching　for　words,　and　grinning　happily　when　he　found　one.

“And　what's　Lotus　Charm　going　to　sing？"　asked　Useless　Fang.

“We　don't　know,"　replied　Pao　Ching.　“It's　difficult　for　her."

Useless　Fang　sat　up　again.　He　cleared　his　throat,　and　his　voice　was　solemn.　“The　trouble　with　both　of　you　is　that　you　do　not　read　well　enough.　If　she　could　read　she　could　easily　find　some　good　patriotic　songs,　about　people　dying　for　their　emperor."　He　got　out　of　bed.　“Here,　let　me　read　it　for　you.　I'm　a　scholar　as　you　know."

Pao　Ching　looked　at　him　in　amazement.　“You　don't　know　any　more　words　than　I　do."

Useless　Fang　looked　insulted.　“You　know　very　well　I　do.　I　know　all　the　words　that　are　necessary.　Now　listen,　and　follow　me."

The　two　brothers　began　to　hum　the　melody.　Sometimes　Pao　Ching　found　a　word,　sometimes　Useless　Fang　got　one,　and　they　were　both　delighted.　Soon　they　felt　they　knew　the　whole　ballad.　When　daylight　began　to　filter　through　the　paper　window　Useless　Fang　suggested　they　should　go　to　bed.　Pao　Ching　agreed,　but　he　did　not　sleep.　He　remembered　another　trouble.　Jeweled　Lute　wouldn't　come.　That　meant　that　Little　Liu　wouldn't　play.

“Elder　brother,"　he　asked,　“how　about　you　playing　the　accompaniment？"

“Me？"　echoed　Useless　Fang.　“Me　—　why？"

“For　honor　and　patriotism,"　said　Pao　Ching　quickly.　“They'll　put　your　name　in　big　type　in　the　newspaper.　Can't　you　see　it？They'll　call　you　`mister.'　It'll　be　Miss　Lotus　Charm　and　Mr.　Fang　Pao　Ching.　You　would　like　that."

There　was　no　answer　but　a　snore.

When　Pao　Ching　woke　at　eleven　next　morning,　his　three-stringed　musical　instrument　was　missing　from　its　accustomed　place　in　the　corner.　He　jumped　out　of　bed.　He　had　been　robbed.　Without　his　precious　instrument　he　was　lost.　He　cried　out　in　agony,　and　rubbed　his　bare　pate　with　his　hands.　Misery,　oh　miseries　—　his　wonderful　three-stringed　instrument.　Gone！Then　he　saw　that　Useless　Fang's　bed　was　empty　—　and　he　smiled.

He　hurried　out　of　the　hotel　in　the　direction　of　the　brook.　He　knew　that　Useless　Fang　loved　to　sit　by　the　waterside.　Presently　he　came　upon　him　sitting　on　a　large　black　rock　and　plucking　at　the　strings.　So　Useless　Fang　would　play　his　accompaniments.　With　a　smile　of　relief　on　his　face　he　walked　back　to　the　hotel　and　ate　breakfast.　To　everything　there　was　a　solution.　Now　he　had　an　accompanist,　and　he　was　no　longer　forced　to　rely　on　Little　Liu.

Pao　Ching　and　Lotus　Charm　were　attached　to　a　government　group.　It　was　billed　to　give　a　three-act　play.　The　Fang　family　were　to　work　in　front　of　the　curtain　between　the　acts.　Pao　Ching　was　thrilled　and　flattered.

The　driver　of　the　Chungking　bus　brought　him　a　batch　of　newspapers.　His　heart　jumped　with　pride　as　he　read　the　advertisements　of　the　show.　His　own　name,　his　brother's　name,　and　Lotus　Charm's.　In　big　type　—　with　Mr.　and　Miss　attached　—　titles　of　respect.　Whooping　like　a　school　boy　he　showed　the　papers　to　the　family.　Useless　Fang　and　Lotus　Charm　were　delighted.　Mrs.　Fang　was　sarcastic.

“What　does　it　matter　if　they　call　you　`Mister'？"　she　cracked.　“You　still　have　to　pay　for　your　carfare."

The　day　of　the　opening　they　were　all　up　early,　dressed　in　their　best.　Lotus　Charm　wore　a　new　light　green　silk　dress,　and　leather　shoes.　On　her　braids　she　tied　white　ribbons.　After　breakfast　she　practiced　walking　without　swaying　her　hips.　Since　she　was　to　appear　with　real　actors　she　had　to　acquire　dignity.　But　it　was　very　hard　to　walk　with　her　hands　straight　down,　her　back　stiff.

Useless　Fang　shaved.　He　not　only　shaved,　which　was　a　rarity　for　him,　but　he　shaved　with　meticulous　care.　No　bristle　escaped　his　razor.　Then　he　trimmed　the　hair　over　his　ears　and　at　the　back　of　his　neck.　He　chose　a　dark　blue　gown　to　contrast　with　his　brother's　gray　one.　To　add　a　striking　touch　to　his　appearance　he　tied　the　cuffs　of　his　trousers　with　long　wide　black　ribbons.

They　arrived　at　the　city　just　before　noon.　Pao　Ching　had　intended　to　treat　his　brother　to　a　handsome　meal　as　a　reward　for　his　kindness　in　coming　to　the　rescue.　But　the　sight　of　Chungking　blasted　and　burned　by　the　bombing　took　away　their　appetites.　Some　of　the　burned-out　houses　had　already　been　rebuilt.　The　others　were　still　black　ruins,　some　with　solitary　walls　standing,　against　which　people　had　erected　booths　of　reed,　so　they　could　carry　on　with　their　business.　And　on　all　sides　were　the　nauseating　scars　of　war,　spaces　of　blackened　rubble.　Pao　Ching　felt　as　if　he　was　seeing　a　giant　corpse　covered　with　wounds　and　sores.　He　shuddered.　Perhaps　it　was　a　good　thing　to　eat,　to　fortify　their　bodies　and　souls.

They　found　a　restaurant.　After　a　hearty　meal　they　went　to　the　theater　to　meet　their　fellow　artists　—　the　real　actors.　They　found　that　most　of　them　were　young.

When　they　saw　the　Fangs　the　whole　troupe　came　to　greet　them,　and　Pao　Ching　was　flattered　to　observe　that　all　the　young　men　and　women　used　the　formal　“Mister"　when　speaking　to　him.　How　different　this　was　from　those　private　parties　where　they　were　treated　like　servants.

When　the　curtain　went　up,　the　manager　of　the　troupe　asked　the　Fang　family　to　sit　in　the　wings　and　watch　the　play.　Pao　Ching　had　never　seen　a　modern　play　before.　His　idea　of　a　play　was　for　each　actor　to　come　out　on　the　stage　and　make　a　long　speech,　one　after　the　other.　But　this　was　different.　The　players　talked　like　people　at　home　or　in　a　tea　shop.　Pao　Ching　recognized　the　trained　artistry　of　the　players,　and　the　astonishing　technique　of　the　production.　It　was　wonderful,　arresting.　He　sat　so　tense　that　he　almost　forgot　to　breathe.　No　flashy　costumes,　no　loud-sounding　gongs,　just　humanity　enacted　for　humanity.　He　whispered　to　his　brother,　“This　is　real　art."　Useless　Fang　nodded,　“Yes　—　real　art."

Lotus　Charm　was　entranced　by　the　performance.　Her　own　technique　was　so　different.　She　was　used　to　singing　a　whole　story,　but　she　had　never　imagined　that　people　could　unfold　a　story　as　these　people　were　doing.　This　was　life　even　though　it　was　play-acting,　and　she　sensed　how　the　play　was　affecting　the　audience.　If　only　she　had　such　power.

The　curtain　fell.　A　handsome　young　man　came　up　and　bowed.　“Miss　Fang　—　you're　on."　He　smiled　and　lowered　his　voice,　“Now　take　your　time.　Our　equipment　is　very　old　and　inadequate,　so　we　take　a　long　time　changing　scenes."

Useless　Fang　walked　ceremoniously　out　on　the　stage,　and　Lotus　Charm　followed.　A　table,　a　chair,　and　the　drum　had　been　placed　in　front　of　the　curtain.　Useless　Fang　halted　dramatically　and　faced　the　audience.　With　slow　dignity　he　rolled　up　his　sleeves.　Then　he　scratched　his　hair　and　started　to　play.

At　the　same　time　the　audience　started　to　talk.　Useless　Fang　hesitated　for　a　moment　and　continued.　He　knew　nothing　of　theater　audiences,　and　how　they　liked　to　divert　themselves　between　the　acts　of　a　play.　As　for　the　audience　they　knew　almost　nothing　about　drum　singers,　and　they　did　not　expect　anything　to　happen　in　front　of　the　curtain　that　hid　the　scene-shifting.　They　paused　for　a　second　when　they　saw　a　man　and　a　girl　on　the　stage,　but　only　just　to　look.　The　girl　was　small,　her　face　was　barely　made　up.　In　fact　under　the　bright　lights　she　looked　as　if　she　had　no　face　at　all.　Just　a　little　round　moon　above　a　green　silk　dress.

Two　or　three　people　in　the　front　rows　got　up　and　went　to　the　rest　rooms.　Others　called　for　peanuts　or　began　to　talk　about　the　play　and　the　war　news.　The　play　was　fascinating　they　all　agreed,　but　what　did　it　all　mean？There　were　some　loud　arguments.

Useless　Fang　closed　his　eyes.　To　be　insulted　so.　These　barbarians.　His　hand　stopped　playing.　Lotus　Charm　went　on　singing.　She　was　Miss　Lotus　Charm　today.　She　was　here　to　sing,　and　sing　she　would.　She　would　not　lose　face　in　front　of　these　strangers.　She　sang　on,　but　the　noise　in　the　auditorium　became　worse.　She　made　a　quick　decision,　and　skipped　a　verse　or　two　of　the　ballad,　laid　down　her　drumstick,　bowed　to　the　impolite　audience,　and　walked　off　the　stage.　In　the　wings　she　burst　into　tears.

Pao　Ching　tried　to　comfort　her,　but　she　wept　more,　sobs　shaking　her　body.　Some　of　the　young　actresses　came　over.　“Don't　worry,　Miss　Lotus　Charm,"　they　said.　“You　sang　beautifully.　These　people　simply　do　not　understand."　One　sweet-faced　girl　put　her　arm　round　Lotus　Charm　and　wiped　away　her　tears.　“We　are　both　show　people,　little　one,"　she　whispered.　“We　understand."　Lotus　Charm　was　happy　again.

Useless　Fang　was　standing　in　the　wings.　His　face　was　red　with　anger.　“I'm　going　home,　younger　brother,"　he　announced,　and　he　laid　down　the　three-stringed　instrument.　Pao　Ching　grabbed　him　by　the　arm.　“No,　you　are　not."　He　drew　himself　upright.　“I　have　not　sung　yet."

The　pretty　young　actresses　heard　what　Useless　Fang　had　said,　and　immediately　came　over.　They　clutched　his　hand　and　patted　his　shoulder.　“Please,　sir,　please."　Useless　Fang　sat　down.　He　was　no　longer　angry.　Instead　he　was　flushing　with　pride.　He,　too,　was　a　“mister"　now,　and　a　real　artist.

After　the　second　act　the　Fang　brothers　marched　on　stage,　shoulder　to　shoulder,　like　warriors　going　into　battle.　The　audience　was　talking　as　before.　Pao　Ching　halted,　and　gave　them　a　professional　smile.　Few　of　them　noticed　it,　so　he　stamped　on　the　boards　and　shook　his　shining　head.　Pao　Ching　waited　a　moment,　and　as　a　little　calm　came　on　the　crowded　theater　he　picked　up　his　drumstick.　Although　there　was　a　smile　on　his　face,　he　was　biting　his　lips.

The　drumstick　was　raised.　Pao　Ching　held　it　poised　in　the　air,　and　then　—　crack,　boom　—　he　began.　He　had　finished　eight　lines　of　the　ballad　about　the　patriotic　general,　when　he　noticed　that　the　audience　was　paying　some　attention.　He　paused　then,　momentarily,　and　cleared　his　throat.　He　wanted　to　select　the　right　tone　for　his　voice,　so　that　it　would　be　heard　in　every　corner　of　the　house.　He　wanted　to　be　sure,　too,　that　everyone　in　the　theater　knew　what　he　was　singing　about.　Pao　Ching　still　waited,　waited　until　there　was　not　a　sound　in　the　whole　theater.　Then　he　began　again,　singing　with　brilliant　competence,　his　voice　perfectly　pitched.

He　wanted　the　people　to　hear　and　appreciate　every　word　of　the　story　he　was　telling.　How　the　patriotic　general　came　home　from　the　battlefield,　and　how　his　aged　mother　set　fire　to　his　home,　so　that　he　would　have　nowhere　to　live,　no　sentimental　attachments,　and　thus　would　go　out　again　to　fight　to　the　end　for　his　emperor.　And　so　consummate　was　the　art　of　the　drum　singer,　that　the　audience　had　the　illusion　of　hearing　the　sound　of　battle　in　the　pounding　rhythm　and　the　twanging　of　the　three　strings　of　Useless　Fang's　instrument.　They　heard　the　crackling　of　the　flames,　the　neighing　of　the　horses,　and　the　sonorous　beating　of　the　war　drums.　The　three-act　play　was　forgotten,　as　the　appeal　of　the　ancient　tone　poem　assailed　their　hearts.

And　the　tragic　ending　of　the　ballad.　Pao　Ching　had　made　a　subtle　change　in　his　manner,　a　softening　of　the　voice.　The　great　General　Chow　was　wounded　and　bleeding　to　death,　his　body　pierced　by　the　arrows　of　enemy　troops.　So　turning　to　the　north,　he　knelt　to　say　farewell　to　his　emperor　and　his　parents,　and　killed　himself　with　his　own　sword.

The　last　note　of　the　three-stringed　instrument　faded　away.　Everywhere　was　silence　—　tense　and　charged.　The　audience　seemed　dazed,　hypnotized　—　until　suddenly　they　burst　into　thunderous　applause.

Pao　Ching　seized　Useless　Fang's　hand,　with　the　unselfish　gesture　of　a　true　star.　He　bowed,　and　Useless　Fang　bowed　awkwardly,　too.　The　audience　cheered　and　cheered.　Pao　Ching　graciously　picked　up　the　three-stringed　instrument　and　carried　it　off　stage　—　his　tribute　to　the　great　musician　who　was　his　elder　brother.

Behind　the　curtain　the　entire　troupe　of　performers　gathered　round　Pao　Ching　and　Useless　Fang.　They　patted　them　on　the　back　and　kissed　their　hands.　A　wild　demonstration　from　the　young　intellectuals.　Pao　Ching　could　not　speak.　He　stood　with　the　clamorous　youngsters　round　him,　and　the　tears　rolled　down　his　face.

After　the　show　Pao　Ching　was　approached　by　a　tall　thin　man　who　looked　more　like　a　skeleton　than　a　man.　His　bones　stuck　out　everywhere.　His　cheeks　were　sunken.　His　long,　thin　chin　seemed　to　hang　over　his　narrow　chest,　and　above　his　ears　his　head　seemed　to　have　shrunk,　as　if　it　had　been　bound　tightly　with　a　cord.　His　was　the　oddest　face　Pao　Ching　had　ever　seen,　but　set　under　the　narrow　brows　were　a　pair　of　large　and　fascinatingly　bright　eyes.　They　burned　into　Pao　Ching's　with　an　arresting　zeal.　It　was　as　if　every　ounce　of　energy　in　this　strange　person　was　fused　into　the　fire　in　his　eyes.

“Mr.　Fang,"　he　said,　“may　I　walk　with　you　awhile？I　have　something　important　to　discuss."　His　voice　was　humble,　shadowed　with　doubt,　as　if　he　was　afraid　that　Pao　Ching　would　refuse.

“Of　course,"　replied　Pao　Ching　with　a　smile.　“I　am　honored."　He　observed　that　the　fellow　was　wearing　a　shabby　European　suit,　without　a　necktie.　His　open　shirt　revealed　a　sharp　bony　chest.

“My　name　is　Meng　Liang,"　said　the　man.　“I　am　the　author　of　the　play　you　just　saw."

Pao　Ching　bowed　with　respect.　“Mr.　Meng,　please　permit　me　to　introduce　my　elder　brother,　Mr.　Fang,　and　my　daughter,　Miss　Lotus　Charm　—　and　may　I　say　that　your　play　was　wonderful."

The　author　laughed.　“Other　people's　wives　are　always　more　attractive,"　he　said　modestly,　“but　when　it　comes　to　writing　I　suppose　we　all　think　our　own　is　the　best.　My　writing　is　not　bad,　but　a　play　is　a　headache.　People　don't　realize　what　it　costs　to　produce　a　play.　The　long　and　boring　rehearsal,　the　anxiety　of　getting　it　just　right　for　the　public.　Of　course,　a　play　is　a　good　vehicle　for　propaganda.　But　we　are　fighting　a　war,　and　we　are　poor,　so　we　cannot　afford　the　money　that　it　costs　to　produce　a　play　properly.　You　know　how　it　is.　You　have　to　pay　for　a　theater,　and　the　rents　are　high.　We　play　to　the　people　here,　and　raise　their　patriotic　zeal,　but　how　are　we　to　reach　the　people　in　the　villages？There　are　no　theaters　there,　and　if　there　were　how　could　we　move　our　scenery　and　our　props？"

He　wagged　his　thin　face.

“Ah,　ah,　a　play　is　very　limited,　but　your　drum　singing　is　the　real　thing　—　the　ideal　vehicle　for　propaganda.　I　am　amazed.　All　you　need　is　your　voice,　your　accompanist,　and　a　good　ballad.　So　you　go　to　a　tea　house　along　the　riverbank　or　wherever　you　like.　You　are　a　one-man　show　with　a　million　voices.　Remember　how　you　held　that　audience？They　couldn't　move,　as　you　struck　at　their　hearts."　He　pointed　a　skinny　finger　at　Pao　Ching.　“You,　my　friend,　are　what　this　country　needs.　Your　art　can　produce　the　greatest　results　with　a　minimum　of　money.　Do　you　see　what　I　mean？"

Mr.　Meng　stopped　short.　He　stood　looking　at　Pao　Ching,　his　hands　in　the　side　pockets　of　his　European　suit.

Pao　Ching　smiled　and　smiled.　His　heart　was　thrilled,　not　for　himself,　but　for　his　beloved　drum　singing,　and　because　this　intellectual　had　recognized　its　importance.

“So　you　see　my　point？"　continued　the　dramatist.　He　began　to　walk　again.　“But　you　need　new　ballads.　You　need　modern　themes　suitable　to　this　war　of　resistance.　You　and　your　daughter　both　need　new　material."　He　looked　at　Lotus　Charm.　“You,　Miss　Lotus　Charm,　you　must　learn　new　material.　You　wept　because　the　people　were　not　interested　in　your　song.　But　don't　worry,　give　them　what　they　want　and　they　will　acclaim　you,　as　they　acclaimed　your　father."

“But　where　can　we　get　new　material？"　inquired　Pao　Ching.

Meng　laughed.　He　pointed　his　skinny　forefinger　at　his　own　chest.　“Here,　here　—　in　this　heart　of　mine.　I　shall　write　for　you."

“You　will　write　them？"　Pao　Ching　echoed.　“Oh,　Mr.　Meng,　we　are　honored.　Please　be　assured　that　from　now　on,　you　are　our　teacher."

Mr.　Meng　raised　his　hand　as　if　to　check　their　enthusiasm.　“Wait,　my　friends,　wait.　Before　I　am　your　teacher,　you　must　be　mine.　You　must　teach　me　some　of　your　old　ballads,　so　that　I　can　learn　the　art.　I　want　to　get　the　melody　and　rhythm　of　drum　singing,　and　learn　how　to　fit　words　to　your　music.　So　we　shall　both　teach　each　other."

Pao　Ching　was　a　little　dubious　as　to　what　he　could　teach　the　dramatist,　but　he　agreed.　He　indicated　Useless　Fang.　“My　brother　will　be　able　to　help　you,　Mr.　Meng,"　he　proposed.　“He　can　sing　as　well　as　play."

Mr.　Meng　was　radiantly　enthusiastic.　“So　it　is　arranged.　Then　I　shall　come　to　live　at　South　Warm　Springs　to　write　my　new　play.　And　as　a　diversion　I　shall　learn　drum　singing　and　study　writing　ballads　for　the　drums.　In　return　for　your　instruction　in　this　fascinating　art,　I　shall　be　honored　if　you　will　allow　me　to　teach　your　daughter　to　read　and　write.　As　a　modern　woman　she　will　find　it　very　useful."

Pao　Ching　raised　his　face　to　the　sky,　and　in　his　heart　he　said　a　prayer　of　thanks.　Recognition　at　last　—　a　triumph　for　the　ancient　art　of　drum　singing.　Never　had　the　future　seemed　so　promising　nor　the　past　so　fruitful.

“Uncle！Father！"　Lotus　Charm　cried　out.　“I　will　soon　be　a　girl　student！I　will　study　hard　with　Mr.　Meng.　I　promise　I　will　do　that."