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  “I'll have a thick steak, and make sure that it's rare,” said Harvey as the waiter approached us.

  “Belay that order,” I said. “He'll have two glasses of orange juice and a cup of coffee.”

  “Preacher,” he said irritably, “sooner or later you got to let me eat something solid or I ain't gonna have the energy to run. I'm starving!”

  “You can't run a full stomach,” I told him sternly.

  “I can't run on one that's been empty for a day and a half, neither!”

  “You're really all that hungry?” I asked.

  “I am.”

  “Okay,” I said, turning to the waiter. “Bring us a thick steak.”

  “Rare,” added Harvey.

  “Yes, sir,” said the waiter, bowing.

  “Does that come with a salad?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. Bring ’em out at the same time.”

  “And what will you have, sir?”

  “I'm having the steak. My friend here gets the salad. No dressing.”

  “Preacher!”

  “Ah, what the hell,” I said, giving in to my soft Christian nature. “Bring him a half order of dressing, on the side.”

  “Thanks a heap,” muttered Harvey.

  He didn't say another word til the salad came, and then he wolfed it down so fast I thought he might take a couple of bites out of the plate by mistake, or maybe on purpose, and I noticed that he licked my steak plate clean while I was settling the bill, but when we left the restaurant I was satisfied that he was in perfect shape for the race.

  The crowds started showing up at about ten o'clock, and by a quarter to midnight there must have been a thousand people, but the betting was going real slow since Harvey had impressed the hell out of ’em in the morning and they wanted to wait to see the opposition and have the odds posted before they started laying their money down.

  Then, suddenly, everything got real quiet, and a big black limousine pulled up and Lo Chung stepped out. He looked like he'd had happier days.

  “Howdy, Lo Chung,” I said, stepping forward. “Welcome to the Sin City Rickshaw Racing Club. I thought you'd be tending to business over at the Central Hotel.”

  “All my customers have come here,” he said grimly.

  “Well, we'll shoot ’em right back to you once the race is over.”

  “You must not continue to interfere with my business, Reverend Jones,” he said.

  “Who's interfering?” I said. “You run roulette wheels and fan-tan games, I run rickshaw races.”

  “I warn you, Reverend. I am becoming seriously displeased with you.”

  “Six or seven weeks, and everyone'll get tired of trying to beat my champion and go back to blowing their paychecks over at your place, Lo Chung,” I said. “You just gotta learn to be patient.”

  “Just remember, Doctor Jones, that my patience is not unending,” he said, and got back into his limo and drove off to the Central Hotel.

  Well, that kind of put a damper on things for a couple of minutes, but then Sir Reginald and the German ambassador showed up, each with what looked like a higher class of coolie, and a few minutes later the race was under way, and this time the coolies broke on top and Harvey just kind of lagged behind in third place, biding his time until the last hundred yards or so, where he came on to win by just under a length.

  We cleared another twenty thousand pounds, stuck it with the rest of our money in the hotel safe, and went to bed, him alone and me with such temptations as I didn't want him to have no part of.

  Next morning I woke him up again, and escorted him down to the restaurant.

  “You know what I dreamed about last night?” he said after I'd ordered him a grapefruit juice and a cup of coffee.

  “Women?” I suggested.

  “Nope.”

  “America?”

  He shook his head. “Food.”

  “Harvey, I'm your manager,” I said. “You gotta trust me. Haven't I made us close to 60,000 pounds already?”

  “Sooner or later you gotta give me something to eat or I'm gonna be too weak to pull that damned rickshaw,” he protested.

  “After this morning's race,” I said. “We'll give you an hour to cool out, and then you can have the biggest steak on the menu. That'll give you more than twelve hours to digest it and sleep it off before you run again at midnight.”

  “You promise?” he asked distrustfully.

  “I swear it on my mother's grave,” I said, which seemed to please him. At any rate, it had to have pleased him more than knowing that my mother was currently running an establishment for fallen women in Wichita, which was in fact the case, but somehow it just wouldn't have sounded as impressive to swear on my mother's sporting house.

  Well, we finished breakfast and walked outside, shouldering our way through a few hundred Chinamen, and what we came to was Lo Chung, leaning against his limousine and doing his damnedest to look inscrutable.

  “You're up early today, Lo Chung,” I said by way of greeting.

  “I finally decided that if I couldn't beat you, I should join you,” he replied.

  “Well, that's right thoughtful of you,” I said, “but the Sin City Jockey Club ain't in the market for no partners.”

  “I meant that I intend to join you as a competitor,” he explained. “Let me make sure I have the conditions correct. You state that your man can outpull any rickshaw in Macau?”

  “That's right.”

  “And there are no other conditions?”

  I shot a quick look at Harvey, figuring that Lo Chung was thinking of bringing in some Chinese track star who we hadn't never heard of, but he just gave me a confident nod.

  “That's right,” I said. “There's ain't no other conditions.”

  He pulled a huge wad of bills out of his pocket. “I'll match whatever winnings you've accrued so far.”

  I looked at Harvey again. He looked fit and trim and confident, even if his stomach was rumbling to beat the band.

  “Okay, Lo Chung, you got yourself a bet,” I said, and escorted him to the desk while he placed his roll on deposit in the safe.

  “Shall we outline the course?” he asked as we were walking back to the street.

  “Well, usually they just run around the block a couple of times,” I said.

  “This may be the biggest wager ever made on a race in Macau,” he answered. “I think more people should be able to see it. I suggest that we race from the ruins of the St. Paul Cathedral to the Temple of Kun Iam.”

  “That's pretty close to mile,” I noted.

  “Isn't your man up to it?” he asked with a smile.

  “Five yards, five miles, it makes no difference to me,” said Harvey.

  “Excellent!” said Lo Chung. “Shall we walk to the starting line?”

  “Wouldn't you rather wait by the finish?” I asked.

  “All in good time, Reverend Jones,” he said. “I'll see the finish, too, never fear.”

  I figured that meant he planned to have his limo drive him to the finish line once the race was underway, and made up my mind to hop a lift with him since I didn't relish walking all the way to the Temple of Kun Iam in the morning sun.

  The St. Paul Cathedral, which had fallen into a mild state of disrepair and now consisted of nothing but four walls, a staircase, and a lot of weeds, was about half a mile from the Macau Inn. Harvey, surrounded by a bunch of kids who all wanted his autograph, started toting the rickshaw there, with me and Lo Chung and a few hundred betters tagging along behind. As we were walking I realized that I'd been so busy watching Harvey's diet that I'd neglected to eat breakfast myself, so I stopped by a local food stand and bought a couple of sandwiches and an apple, stuffed the apple and one of the sandwiches in my pocket, and munched on the other as we made our way to the starting line.

  “By the way, I ain't seen your rickshaw yet, Brother Lo Chung,” I said.

  “It's waiting for us at the Cathedral.”

  When we got
to within maybe fifty yards of the Cathedral, I turned to him. “You must be wrong, Brother Lo Chung,” I said. “Ain't nothing there but a horse and buggy.”

  “A horse and rickshaw,” he corrected me.

  “Well, that's one way of getting it here,” I said. “Where's your puller?”

  “Right there, Reverend Jones,” he replied.

  “But that's a horse!”

  “How clever of you to notice.”

  “That ain't in the rules! Get rid of it and get yourself a man to pull your rickshaw!”

  “You explicitly stated that your man could outpull any rickshaw on Macau,” said Lo Chung. “You never said that it had to be pulled by another man. That is my puller.”

  “No way!” I yelled. “You get a man in front of that rickshaw or the bet's off!”

  “The bet is on, Reverend Jones,” he said, and suddenly I was looking down the barrels of a couple of dozen pistols in the hands of his friends and relations, all of who were dressed in black. “Perhaps next time you will think more carefully before cutting in on someone else's business.”

  “Well, maybe I'll just tie our rickshaw onto the back of a car,” I said.

  “That would be against the rules,” said Lo Chung. “You've already named your puller. He's the one taking on all challengers, remember?”

  “I'm gonna have to think about this,” I said.

  “Well, think quickly,” said Lo Chung. “The race starts in seven minutes.”

  I walked over to Harvey.

  “What about it?” I asked in low tones. “Think you can beat a horse?”

  “Not a chance,” he said dejectedly.

  Then an interesting notion struck me. “Don't be so all-fired sure of that,” I told him. “The horse don't know he's in a race, does he?”

  “What are you driving at, Preacher?” asked Harvey.

  “When the race starts, why don't you just walk calm and natural-like toward the Temple of Kun Iam? If he ain't got no reason to run, he'll either stay right where he is or fall into step behind you. Maybe we can win this thing without you breaking out of a walk!”

  “I think you've got something there, Preacher!” he said excitedly. “Let's give it a try!”

  “Okay, Lo Chung,” I said, walking back to the Chinaman. “We accept your puller.”

  “Good,” he said, walking over to his rickshaw. “I knew you'd see the light of reason.”

  He began clambering up onto the seat.

  “Now what the hell are you doing?” I demanded.

  “I'm willingly giving my puller a handicap of 183 pounds,” he said.

  “You can't do that!”

  “There is nothing in the rules prohibiting me from sitting in my rickshaw during the race,” he said, as one of his henchmen handed him a whip and another began putting a bridle over the horse's head.

  “I made the rules!” I shouted. “And I say that ain't legal!”

  “Shall we put it to a vote?” asked Lo Chung.

  “All right,” I said furiously. “Let's just do that!”

  Lo Chung nodded to his men, who turned their pistols on the crowd. “Will any man who thinks my actions constitute a breach of the rules please fall down with a bullet in his chest?” he said in a loud, clear voice.

  Nobody fell down, or did much of anything else.

  He smiled at me. “There you have it, Reverend. A unanimous vote. Now, if you have no further objections, I'll send some of my men ahead to make sure no one absconds with the money.”

  I had plenty of objections, but it didn't seem all that desirable to voice them at that particular moment. I suggested to my Silent Partner that time was running out fast, and that if He was going to intervene He'd better do it quick, and damned if He didn't come up with an idea.

  I looked around until I found an old coolie with a bamboo fishing pole maybe ten or twelve feet long and asked if I could borrow it. I don't think he understood a word I said, but he just kept chattering and bowing until finally I took it out of his hands.

  “Going fishing, Reverend?” asked Lo Chung with a chuckle. “I thought you were here to watch a rickshaw race.”

  “You got a whip,” I said. “It's only fair that I should have a whip.”

  And with that, I climbed into the chair of Harvey's rickshaw.

  “Are you crazy, Preacher?” he demanded. “I can't beat the damned horse without you!”

  “Fair is fair,” I said, smiling back at Lo Chung. “And when we win, I don't ever want anyone saying we done it because Harvey didn't have a passenger and the horse did.”

  Lo Chung busted out laughing at that, and Harvey kept muttering to himself, and a couple of minutes later we were lined up, nose to nose, in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, pointing toward the Temple of Kun Iam about a mile away.

  “Are the contestants ready?” asked Sir Reginald, who had volunteered to be the official starter.

  “Not quite,” I said, fiddling with the wire on the end of the fishing pole.

  “What are you doing, Reverend Jones?” demanded Lo Chung suspiciously.

  “Just making sure my whip is in working order,” I said.

  “You whip me with that thing and I'll give you the beating of your life!” muttered Harvey under his breath.

  “Okay, now I'm ready,” I said after another moment or two.

  “Splendid!” said Sir Reginald. He pulled out his little ivory-handled revolver. “On your marks, get set, go!”

  He shot the pistol off just as I swung the fishing pole, with my apple attached to it, in front of the horse's face. He lunged at it, almost throwing Lo Chung out of the rickshaw, and Harvey got off to a quick lead.

  “What's going on back there, Preacher?” he asked as he ran along. “Where the hell is the horse?”

  “You worry about the running, and leave the horse to me,” I said, hanging over the side and dangling the apple just in front of the horse's nose. Whenever he reached for it, I flicked my hand and moved it a few inches away from him.

  Lo Chung was beating the horse with his whip and cussing a blue streak, but evidently the poor animal hadn't had no more to eat than Harvey had, because he just ignored Lo Chung and kept his eyes peeled on the apple.

  Well, we ambled along like that for almost three quarters of a mile, and I took a quick peek ahead and could see the Temple of Kun Iam maybe three hundred yards ahead of us. Then our rickshaw hit a big dip in the road and I almost fell out, and by the time I had regained my balance the horse had reached out and finally got his teeth into the apple and bit it off.

  “Step it up, Harvey!” I yelled. “We got problems!”

  The horse didn't speed up, but he didn't slow down none either, and I could see that he was going to be done with the apple before we crossed the finish line, and there wasn't no doubt in my mind that once that particular event came to pass he would finally respond to the whip that Lo Chung kept beating him with.

  Then I remembered the other sandwich that I had tucked away in my pocket, and I figured what worked for one puller might work for another, so I quick tied it to the end of the fishing rod just about the time the horse downed the last of the apple and we had maybe forty yards to go.

  I reached out and stuck it just out of Harvey's reach, and he took off with a burst of speed that would have done Jim Thorpe proud. Lo Chung's rickshaw was coming up fast on the left, but Harvey was inspired, and we crossed the finish line a good half-length in front.

  I let Harvey grab the sandwich then, and he kept running as he stuffed it in his mouth.

  “You can stop now!” I said. “We won!”

  “I saw fifteen of Lo Chung's friends and relations standing there in front of the Temple with their guns out and looking very upset for this early in the day,” he hollered back at me.

  “But we got all our money back at the Macau Inn!” I said.

  “It's only money.”

  “What's so only about money?” I demanded.

  “You do what you gotta do, Preacher,” said
Harvey, heading straight toward the dock. “Me, I'm getting out of town alive and intact. There'll be other rickshaw races, and I aim to have my legs still attached to the rest of me when I run in ’em.”

  I looked back and saw Lo Chung standing beside his rickshaw, raising all kinds of a ruckus, and then a few of his friends and relations looked after us and fired a couple of shots in our direction, and suddenly a boat trip to the mainland started looking better and better.

  “After all,” I said aloud, “what is a man profited if he wins a hundred thousand pounds sterling and loses his innerds?”

  Harvey said “Amen!” and jacked up the pace as the Temple of Kun Iam faded into the distance behind us.

  3. The Insidious Oriental Dentist

  Once we hit the mainland, Harvey and I parted company. He wanted to get right back into the rickshaw-racing business, but I decided to head off to Peking, which was the capital city of China and figured to have not only the most sinners in need of saving but the most opportunities to raise funds for my tabernacle.

  Well, let me tell you something: it ain't no short hop from Macau to Peking. It took me six months to get there, during which time I picked up a smattering of the language, fell in love fourteen or fifteen times, and only got a personal tour of one calaboose. That was in a little town called Poshan, where the apple of my eye turned out to be the fruit of the local warlord's loins, but even that worked out for the good, because I lost a quick ten pounds on the prison grub and was more handsome than ever by the time I got the jailkeeper interested in a little game of chance involving the number twenty-one, and won my freedom.

  By the time I finally got within hailing distance of Peking I wasn't looking my very best, not having changed clothes for the better part of half a year, and despite taking a plunge into any river I passed by I wasn't on the verge of turning into any nosegay neither, so I started scouting around the countryside for some of the Christian missions I'd heard had been built in these parts. It didn't take too long to find one, where I stopped in for a meal and a little discussion of the Good Book—I'm kind of weak on the Sermon on the Mount, but I'll match my knowledge of the why and how of all the begattings with the best of ’em—and on the way out I borrowed a new set of missionary clothes that I found drying on a clothesline, since I knew these fellers wouldn't begrudge them to a fellow Christian, and besides, I figured an act of inadvertent charity would put them in real tight with the Lord, Who appreciates such things if not done to excess.