Page:Weird Tales Volume 30 Number 02 (1937-08).djvu/49

 Ming Ti was tired of being alone. His spirits drooped. He was alone in a stinking cell where there was no human about to whom he could boast. There were vermin and rats, to be sure, but they paid little heed to his ravings. Always he had wasted his time in wine shops and in the company of women, telling tall tales about his exploits. Everything was related with some degree of veracity, though slightly multiplied. If he fought one man it was a dozen. If he escaped from his pursuers by swimming a creek it was a mighty river. If he kicked a dog until it fled yelping from his path it became a tiger in the telling. And his exploits in love were equally as amazing. They too were warmed with boasting, but they were so Rabelaisian that they cannot be set down. Suffice to say that no woman could resist him, and certainly there was no woman strong enough to overcome him in nuptial combat. He was a singing troubadour, a Chinese Don Juan. For years he had been the center of his little world. His subjects had willingly grouped around him, for he told his stories well; but, far more important, he dispensed warm wine when the tales were concluded. Now he no longer had wine, and his subjects had dispersed to other tiny kingdoms not overcome by drought. So at the approach of Doctor Wen Hsi he was in a highly receptive mood.

Naturally he was unenthusiastic about the suggestion that he relinquish all claim to his ear, but he was enthusiastic about the opportunity to continue marching onward into life. Life had been too enjoyable for him to contemplate cessation of it without regret.

Now Doctor Wen Hsi was a man of action. Wherever possible he liked to accomplish his work with promptitude. Therefore he took Ming Ti back to the mandarin and amid great pomp and ceremony Ming Ti's ear was transplanted onto the moon-like head of Wang Mok. And in the palace there was great rejoicing, for now the mandarin had not lost face; rather he had regained that part of his face that had been missing.

Ming Ti, the bandit, was amply rewarded. His wound was given the best of attention. When it had healed he was sent forth from the palace, a free man, and his purse had been filled with so much gold that it was burdensome to carry. But Ming Ti soon righted that. He stopped at numerous wine shops, dallied on love boats and squandered his new wealth in profligate living and with such speed that he was soon reduced to a rank little above that of a beggar. So once more he returned to his profession of banditry, which he had perfected until it had become a fine art.

Wang Mok, the mandarin, walked once more among his slave-women in the vast gardens surrounding his house. Once more he was fit for the adoration of slant-eyed girls. How good it was to feel the caress of slender hands, the warmth and softness of lush red lips, under a Chinese moon! The garden was fragrant with the mingled perfumes of many flowers. And in that garden walked Jasmine, with a body like warm white velvet. When Jasmine smiled, the moon itself bowed in homage. Wang Mok was completely captivated by this slender gorgeous slave who had come to live with him, though now he found himself living with her. He obeyed her every wish. She was a delicate, fragile, perfumed tyrant. She cared not in the slightest for Wang Mok, but she was appreciative of the position in which she was placed through her association with him. Her family had been poor farmers who lived in the shadow of the Yellow River. Sometimes the shadows deepened and floods enveloped the land like great