«You called in at Rangoon?» he queried.
I nodded. «We put our third mate ashore there. Fever.»
If he had asked me what kind of fever, I should have answered, «Enteric,» though for the life of me I didn’t know what enteric was. But he didn’t ask me. Instead, his next question was:—
«And how is Rangoon?»
«All right. It rained a whole lot when we were there.»
«Did you get shore-leave?»
«Sure,» I answered. «Three of us apprentices went ashore together.»
«Do you remember the temple?»
«Which temple?» I parried.
«The big one, at the top of the stairway.»
If I remembered that temple, I knew I’d have to describe it. The gulf yawned for me.
I shook my head.
«You can see it from all over the harbor,» he informed me. «You don’t need shore-leave to see that temple.»
I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I fixed that particular temple at Rangoon.
«You can’t see it from the harbor,» I contradicted. «You can’t see it from the town. You can’t see it from the top of the stairway. Because – » I paused for the effect. «Because there isn’t any temple there.»
«But I saw it with my own eyes!» he cried.
«That was in – ?» I queried.
«Seventy-one.»
«It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887,» I explained. «It was very old.»
There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in his old eyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.
«The stairway is still there,» I aided him. «You can see it from all over the harbor. And you remember that little island on the right-hand side coming into the harbor?»
I guess there must have been one there (I was prepared to shift it over to the left-hand side), for he nodded. «Gone,» I said. «Seven fathoms of water there now.»
I had gained a moment for breath. While he pondered on time’s changes, I prepared the finishing touches of my story.
«You remember the custom-house at Bombay?»
He remembered it.
«Burned to the ground,» I announced.
«Do you remember Jim Wan?» he came back at me.
«Dead,» I said; but who the devil Jim Wan was I hadn’t the slightest idea.
I was on thin ice again.
«Do you remember Billy Harper, at Shanghai?» I queried back at him quickly.
That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect, but the Billy Harper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory.
«Of course you remember Billy Harper,» I insisted. «Everybody knows him. He’s been there forty years. Well, he’s still there, that’s all.»