On the Canton River Boat

Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry. He is dressed in a uniform of khaki and his socks are green. Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and from his belt hang a pistol and cartridge pouch. He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed.

Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a background in a dream. He only is sweltering reality. Yet he is here to guard against a nightmare, an anachronism, something that I cannot grasp. He is guarding me from pirates.

Piracy! The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored like a toucan in the zoo. And yet the ordinance is clear: "Four armed guards, strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room enclosed—in case of piracy."

The socks of the sentry are green. Up and down, up and down he paces, between the bridge and the first of the life-boats. In my deck chair I grow restless.

Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization, that I cannot feel the cold splash of truth? It is a disquieting thought—for certainly piracy seems as fantastic as ever.

The socks of the sentry annoy me. They are too green for so hot a day. And his shoes squeak. I should feel much cooler if he wouldn't pace so. Piracy!