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Mikael Olsson

PHP 8 Quick Scripting Reference

A Pocket Guide to PHP Web Scripting
3rd ed.
Mikael Olsson
Hammarland, Finland

Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the

author in this book is available to readers on GitHub via the book’s
product page, located at www.​apress.​com/​978-1-4842-6618-2. For
more detailed information, please visit http://​www.​apress.​com/​
source-code.

ISBN 978-1-4842-6618-2 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-6619-9

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-6619-9

© Mikael Olsson 2021

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the

Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned,
specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations,
recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other
physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar
methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the
relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general
use.

The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

Distributed to the book trade worldwide by Apress Media, LLC, 1 New

York Plaza, New York, NY 10004, U.S.A. Phone 1-800-SPRINGER, fax
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Introduction
PHP is a server-side programming language used for creating dynamic
websites and interactive web applications. The acronym PHP originally
stood for Personal Home Page, but as its functionality grew, this was
changed to PHP: Hypertext Preprocessor. This recursive acronym
comes from the fact that it takes PHP code as input and produces HTML
as output. This means that users do not need to install any software to
view PHP-generated web pages. All that is required is that the web
server has PHP installed to interpret the script.
In contrast with HTML sites, PHP sites are dynamically generated.
Instead of the site being made up of a large number of static HTML files,
a PHP site may consist of only a handful of template files. The template
files describe only the structure of the site using PHP code, while the
web content is pulled from a database and the style formatting is from
Cascading Style Sheets (CSS). This allows for site-wide changes from a
single location, providing a flexible website that is easy to design,
maintain, and update.
When creating websites with PHP, a content management system
(CMS) is generally used. A CMS provides a fully integrated platform for
website development consisting of a back end and a front end. The
front end is what visitors see when they arrive at the site, whereas the
back end is where the site is configured, updated, and managed by
administrators. The back end also allows a web developer to change
template files and modify plugins to more extensively customize the
functionality and structure of the site. Examples of free PHP-based CMS
solutions include WordPress, Joomla, MODX, and Drupal, with
WordPress being the most popular and accounting for more than half of
the CMS market.
The first version of PHP was created by Rasmus Lerdorf and
released in 1995. Since then, PHP has evolved greatly from a simple
scripting language to a fully featured web programming language. The
official implementation is now released by the PHP Group, with PHP 8
being the most recent version as of this writing. The language may be
used free of charge and is open source, allowing developers to extend it
for their own use or to contribute to its development.
 PHP is by far the most popular server-side programming language
in use today. It holds an 80% market share when compared with other
server-side technologies, such as ASP.NET, Java, Ruby, and Python. One
of the reasons for the widespread adoption of PHP is its platform
independence. It can be installed on all major web servers and
operating systems and used with any major database system. Another
strong feature of PHP is its simple-to-use syntax based on C and Perl,
which is easy for a newcomer to learn; however, PHP also offers many
advanced features for the professional programmer.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1:​Using PHP
Embedding PHP
Outputting Text
Installing a Web Server
Hello World
Compile and Parse
Comments
Chapter 2:​Variables
Defining Variables
Data Types
Integer Type
Floating-Point Type
Bool Type
Null Type
Default Values
Chapter 3:​Operators
Arithmetic Operators
Assignment Operators
Combined Assignment Operators
Increment and Decrement Operators
Comparison Operators
Logical Operators
Bitwise Operators
Operator Precedence
Additional Logical Operators
Chapter 4:​String
String Concatenation
Delimiting Strings
Heredoc Strings
Nowdoc Strings
Escape Characters
Character Reference
String Compare
String Functions
Chapter 5:​Arrays
Numeric Arrays
Associative Arrays
Mixed Arrays
Multi-dimensional Arrays
Chapter 6:​Conditionals
If Statement
Switch Statement
Alternative Syntax
Mixed Modes
Ternary Operator
Match Expression
Chapter 7:​Loops
While Loop
Do-while Loop
For Loop
Foreach Loop
 Alternative Syntax
Break
Continue
Goto
Chapter 8:​Functions
Defining Functions
Calling Functions
Function Parameters
Optional Parameters
Named Arguments
Variable Parameter Lists
Return Statement
Scope and Lifetime
Anonymous Functions
Closures
Arrow Functions
Generators
Built-in Functions
Chapter 9:​Class
Instantiating an Object
Accessing Object Members
Initial Property Values
Constructor
Destructor
Case Sensitivity
Object Comparison
 Anonymous Classes
Closure Object
Chapter 10:​Inheritance
Overriding Members
Final Keyword
Instanceof Operator
Chapter 11:​Access Levels
Private Access
Protected Access
Public Access
Var Keyword
Object Access
Access Level Guideline
Accessors
Chapter 12:​Static
Referencing Static Members
Static Variables
Late Static Bindings
Chapter 13:​Constants
Const
Define
Const and define
Constant Guideline
Magic Constants
Chapter 14:​Interface
Interface Signatures
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 Interface Example
Interface Usages
Interface Guideline
Chapter 15:​Abstract
Abstract Methods
Abstract Example
Abstract Classes and Interfaces
Abstract Guideline
Chapter 16:​Traits
Inheritance and Traits
Trait Guidelines
Chapter 17:​Importing Files
Include Path
Require
Include_​once
Require_​once
Return
_​Autoload
Chapter 18:​Type Declarations
Argument Type Declarations
Return Type Declarations
Strict Typing
Nullable Types
Union Types
Property Type Declarations
Chapter 19:​Type Conversions
 Explicit Casts
Settype
Gettype
Chapter 20:​Variable Testing
Isset
Empty
Is_​null
Unset
Null Coalescing Operator
Nullsafe Operator
Determining Types
Variable Information
Chapter 21:​Overloading
Property Overloading
Method Overloading
Isset and unset Overloading
Chapter 22:​Magic Methods
_​toString
_​invoke
Object Serialization
_​sleep
_​wakeup
Set State
Object Cloning
Chapter 23:​User Input
HTML Form
 Sending with POST
Sending with GET
Request Array
Security Concerns
Submitting Arrays
File Uploading
Superglobals
Chapter 24:​Cookies
Creating Cookies
Cookie Array
Deleting Cookies
Chapter 25:​Sessions
Starting a Session
Session Array
Deleting a Session
Sessions and Cookies
Chapter 26:​Namespaces
Creating Namespaces
Nested Namespaces
Alternative Syntax
Referencing Namespaces
Namespace Aliases
Namespace Keyword
Namespace Guideline
Chapter 27:​References
Assign by Reference
 Pass by Reference
Return by Reference
Chapter 28:​Advanced Variables
Curly Syntax
Variable Variable Names
Variable Function Names
Variable Class Names
Chapter 29:​Error Handling
Correcting Errors
Error Levels
Error-Handling Environment
Custom Error Handlers
Raising Errors
Chapter 30:​Exception Handling
Try-catch Statement
Throwing Exceptions
Catch Block
Finally Block
Rethrowing Exceptions
Uncaught Exception Handler
Errors and Exceptions
Chapter 31:​Assertions
Assert Performance
Index
About the Author
Mikael Olsson
is a professional web entrepreneur,
programmer, and author. He works for
an R&D company in Finland, where he
specializes in software development.
In his spare time, Mikael writes
books and creates websites on his
various fields of interest. The books that
he writes are focused on efficiently
teaching the subject by explaining only
what is relevant and practical, without
any unnecessary repetition or theory.
About the Technical Reviewer
Aravind Medamoni
is an experienced software developer who currently works as a
freelance mobile application developer. He is proficient in Java, Kotlin,
Flutter, Dart, PHP, JavaScript, Nodejs, MongoDB, and SQL. He has
worked as Tech Lead at OpenStackDC for 1 year and as a backend and
Android developer. Aravind has also helped many students start their
career in the software industry. He has won a national-level hackathon
in his career.
© Mikael Olsson 2021
M. Olsson, PHP 8 Quick Scripting Reference
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-6619-9_1

1. Using PHP
Mikael Olsson1
(1) Hammarland, Finland

To start developing in PHP, create a plain text file with a .php file
extension and open it in the editor of your choice—for example,
Notepad, jEdit, Dreamweaver, NetBeans, or PHPEclipse. This PHP file
can include any HTML, as well as PHP scripting code. Begin by first
entering the following minimal markup for an HTML 5 web document.

<!doctype html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>PHP Test</title>
</head>
<body></body>
</html>

Embedding PHP
PHP code can be embedded anywhere in a web document in several
different ways. The standard notation is to delimit the code by <?php
and ?>. This is called a PHP code block , or just a PHP block.

<?php ... ?>

Within a PHP block, the PHP engine is said to be in PHP mode;

outside of the block, the engine is in HTML mode. In PHP mode,
everything is parsed (executed) by the PHP engine, whereas in HTML
mode, everything is sent to the generated web page without any
parsing.
The second notation for switching to PHP mode is a short version of
the first where the php part is left out. Although this notation is shorter,
the longer one is preferable if the PHP code needs to be portable. This is
because support for the short delimiter can be disabled in the
php.ini configuration file.1

<? ... ?>

A third (now obsolete) alternative was to embed the PHP code

within an HTML script element with the language attribute set to php.
This alternative delimiter was seldom used; support for it was removed
in PHP 7.

<script language="php">...</script>

Another obsolete notation that you may encounter in legacy code is

when the script is embedded between ASP tags. This notation is
disabled by default, but it can be enabled from the PHP configuration
file. Use of this notation has long been discouraged. The ability to
enable it was finally removed in PHP 7.

<% ... %>

The last closing tag in a script file may be omitted to make the file
end while it is still in PHP mode.

<?php ... ?>

<?php ...

Outputting Text
Printing text in PHP is done by either typing echo or print followed by
the output. Each statement must end with a semicolon (;) in order to
separate it from other statements. The semicolon for the last statement
in a PHP block is optional, but it is a good practice to include it.
<?php
echo "Hello World";
print "Hello World";
?>
Output can also be generated using the <?= open delimiter. As of
PHP 5.4, this syntax is valid even if the short PHP delimiter is disabled.

<?= "Hello World" ?>

Keep in mind that text displayed on a web page should always be

located within the HTML body element.

<body>
<?php echo "Hello World"; ?>
</body>

Installing a Web Server

To view PHP code in a browser , the code first has to be parsed on a
web server with the PHP module installed. An easy way to set up a PHP
environment is to download and install a distribution of the popular
Apache web server called XAMPP,2 which comes preinstalled with PHP,
Perl, and MariaDB. It is available for Windows, Linux, as well as OS X
and allows you to experiment with PHP on your own computer.
After installing the web server, point your browser to
http://localhost to make sure that the server is online. It should
display the index.php file, which by default is located under
C:\xampp\htdocs\ on Windows or /opt/lampp/htdocs/ on
Linux. htdocs is the folder that the Apache web server looks into for
files to serve on your domain.

Hello World
Continuing from before, the simple Hello World PHP web document
should look like this:

<!doctype html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>PHP Test</title>
</head>
<body>
<?php echo "Hello World"; ?>
</body>
</html>
To view this PHP file parsed into HTML, save it to the web server’s
htdocs folder (the server’s root directory) with a name such as
mypage.php. Then point your browser to its path, which is
http://localhost/mypage.php for a local web server.
When a request is made for the PHP web page, the script is parsed
on the server and sent to the browser as only HTML. If the source code
for the website is viewed, it will not show any of the server-side code
that generated the page—only the HTML output.

Compile and Parse

PHP is an interpreted language, not a compiled language. Every time a
visitor arrives at a PHP website, the PHP engine compiles the code and
parses it into HTML, which is then sent to the visitor. The main
advantage of this is that the code can be changed easily without having
to recompile and redeploy the website. The main disadvantage is that
compiling the code at run-time requires more server resources.
For a small website, a lack of server resources is seldom an issue.
The time it takes to compile PHP code is also miniscule compared to
other factors, such as the time required to execute database queries.
However, for a large web application with lots of traffic, the server load
from compiling PHP files is likely to be significant. For such a site, the
script compilation overhead can be removed by precompiling the PHP
code. This can be done using a PHP accelerator such as WinCache,3
which caches PHP scripts in their compiled state.
A website that only serves static content (same to all visitors) has
another possibility, which is to cache the fully generated HTML pages.
This provides all the maintenance benefits of having a dynamic site,
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with the speed of a static site. One such caching tool is the W3 Total
Cache4 plugin for the WordPress CMS.
Each new version of PHP has improved not just the language but
also the performance of the PHP engine. In particular, PHP 8 added a JIT
(just in time) compiler. This compiler continuously looks for PHP code
that is frequently re-executed. This code is then compiled into machine
code and cached, allowing for the code to execute even faster than
regular cached precompiled code.

Comments
Comments are used to insert notes into the code. They have no effect on
the parsing of the script. PHP has the two standard C++ notations for
single-line (//) and multiline (/* */) comments. The Perl comment
notation (#) may also be used to make single-line comments.

<?php
// single-line comment
# single-line comment
/* multi-line
comment */
?>

As in HTML , whitespace characters—such as spaces, tabs, and

comments—are ignored by the PHP engine. This allows you a lot of
freedom in how to format your code.

Footnotes
1 www.php.net/manual/en/configuration.file.php

2 www.apachefriends.org

3 https://sourceforge.net/projects/wincache/
4 http://wordpress.org/extend/plugins/w3-total-cache
© Mikael Olsson 2021
M. Olsson, PHP 8 Quick Scripting Reference
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-6619-9_2

2. Variables
Mikael Olsson1
(1) Hammarland, Finland

Variables are used for storing data, such as numbers or strings, so that
they can be used multiple times in the code.

Defining Variables
A variable starts with a dollar sign ($) followed by an identifier, which
is the name of the variable. A common naming convention for variables
is to have each word initially capitalized, except for the first one.

$myVar;

A value can be assigned to a variable by using the equals sign, or

assignment operator (=). The variable then becomes defined or
initialized.

$myVar = 10;

Once a variable has been defined, it can be used by referencing the

variable’s name. For example, the value of the variable can be printed to
the web page by using echo followed by the variable’s name.

echo $myVar; // "10"

Keep in mind that variable names are case sensitive. Names in PHP
can include underscore characters and numbers, but they cannot start
with a number. They also cannot contain spaces or special characters,
and they must not be a reserved keyword.

Data Types
PHP is a loosely typed language. This means that the type of data that a
variable can store is not specified. Instead, a variable’s data type
changes automatically to hold the value that it is assigned.

$myVar = 1; // int type

$myVar = 1.5; // float type

Furthermore, the value of a variable is evaluated differently,

depending on the context in which it is used.

// Float type evaluated as string type

echo $myVar; // "1.5"

Because of these implicit type conversions, knowing the underlying

type of a variable is not always necessary. Nevertheless, it is important
to have an understanding of the data types that PHP works with in the
background. These ten types are listed in Table 2-1.
Table 2-1 PHP Data Types

Data Type Category Description

int Scalar Integer.
float Scalar Floating-point number.
bool Scalar Boolean value.
string Scalar Series of characters.
array Composite Collection of values.
object Composite User-defined data type.
resource Special External resource.
callable Special Function or method.
mixed Special Any type.
Data Type Category Description
null Special No value.

Integer Type
An integer is a whole number. They can be specified in decimal (base
10), hexadecimal (base 16), octal (base 8), or binary (base 2) notation.
Hexadecimal numbers are preceded with a 0x, octal with a 0, and
binary numbers with a 0b.

$myInt = 1234; // decimal number

$myInt = 0b10; // binary number (2 in decimal)
$myInt = 0123; // octal number (83 in decimal)
$myInt = 0x1A; // hexadecimal number (26 in
decimal)

Integers in PHP are always signed and can therefore store both
positive and negative values. The size of an integer depends on the
system word size, so on a 32-bit system, the largest storable value is
2^32-1. If PHP encounters a larger value, it is interpreted as a float
instead.

Floating-Point Type
The float or floating-point type can store real numbers. These can be
assigned using either decimal or exponential notation.

$myFloat = 1.234;
$myFloat = 3e2; // 3*10^2 = 300

The precision of a float is platform dependent. Commonly, the 64-bit

IEEE format is used, which can hold approximately 14 decimal digits
and a maximum decimal value of 1.8×10308.

Bool Type
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Again, he was with the Russians at Wangcheng before the port was
closed, and got the story of the Yalu fight. This through John Milner,
the American consul at Wangcheng, in whom he made a staunch
and valued friend, regretting that it was necessary to do so under the
name of “A. V. Weed.” Milner was an old World-News editor, a man
of stirring energy, and strong in the graces of the Russians at his
post. He was ardent to serve all American interests, and the World-
News in particular. He presented Routledge to General Borodoffsky,
who told the story of the battle; and there was a fine touch in the fact
that the general wept as he related the Russian defeat. The story
proved more complete and accurate than any which the
correspondents with Kuroki managed to get through the Japanese
censor. Kuroki’s great losses by drowning were for the first time
brought out. Borodoffsky declared with tears that the future of the
war must not be judged by this battle, as the Russian defeat was due
entirely to an error of judgment. Routledge was leaving Wangcheng
with the story when two British correspondents arrived. This
prevented his return. The Borodoffsky story was filed in
Shanhaikwan.
In a sea-going junk, the third week of May, Routledge crossed the
Liaotung Gulf, hoping to get into Port Arthur, which was not yet
invested. Instead, he stumbled onto the Nanshan story. From the
northern promontory of Kinchow he caught a big and valuable
conception of this literatesque engagement of the land and sea
forces, and returned with it to Chifu for filing.
Back to lower Liaotung again, in early June. In spite of every
precaution, one of Togo’s gunboats ran him down in Society Bay,
and he was sent ashore under a guard. Great luck served him,
inasmuch as there were no English with the Japanese at this place,
Pulatien, where he was held for ten days, while the officers debated
upon his credentials. It was here that Routledge encountered the
prettiest feature-story of the war—the duel of Watanabe and Major
Volbars, a prisoner from Nanshan. The Japanese escorted him to his
junk at last, and he put off with orders from one of Togo’s ensigns to
return no more to Kwantung waters. The battle of Telissu was fought
on this day at sea, and he missed it entirely. With English now in
Wangcheng and Chifu, Routledge ordered his Chinese to sail north,
and to put him ashore at Yuenchen, a little port twenty miles to the
west of the Liao’s mouth.
It was only by a squeak that the order was carried out. That was a
night of furies on the yellow gulf. Bent in the hold, thigh-deep in
tossing water, Routledge recalled the hovel in Rydamphur with a
sorry smile. It did not seem at that moment that the storm would ever
permit him to be maimed on land—or a woman to come to him. The
old craft was beaten about under bare poles in a roaring black that
seemed to drop from chaos. The Chinese fought for life, but the gray
of death-fear was upon them. Bruised, almost strangled, Routledge
crouched in the musty hold, until his mind fell at last into a strange
abstraction, from which he aroused after an unknown time. His
physical weariness was extreme, but it did not seem possible that he
could have slept, standing in black, foaming water, and with a
demoniacal gale screeching outside. Yet certainly something had
gone from him and had taken his consciousness, or the better part of
it.... It was this night that Noreen Cardinegh had entered at dusk her
little house in Minimasacuma-cho and met by the easel the visible
thought-form of her lover.
Day broke with the wind lulled, and the old craft riding monster seas,
her poles still to the sky. The daylight sail brought him to Yuenchen;
from whence he made his way northward by land to Pingyang. This
town was but an hour’s saddle to the east of the railroad and
telegraph at Koupangtze—twenty miles west of the junction of the
Taitse and the Liao river, and fifty miles west of Liaoyang. Here he
established headquarters completely out of the white man’s world,
rested and wrote mail stories for several weeks. Toward the end of
July, he set out on a ten days’ saddle trip toward Liaoyang, with the
idea of becoming familiar with the topography of the country, in
preparation for the battle, already in sight. It was on this trip that he
was hailed one afternoon by an American, named Butzel. This young
man was sitting on the aft-gunnel of a river-junk, rolling a cigarette,
when Routledge turned his horse upon the Taitse river-road, four or
five miles to the east of the Liao. Routledge would have avoided the
meeting had he been given a chance, but Butzel gaily ordered his
Chinese to put ashore. The voice was that of a man from the Middle
States—and Routledge filled with yearning to take a white hand. His
only friend since he had left Rawder in India was Consul Milner at
Wangcheng.
Butzel had journeyed thus deep into the elder world—as natural an
explorer as ever left behind his nerves and his saving portion of fear.
He hadn’t any particular credentials, he said, and hadn’t played the
newspaper game very strongly up to now. The Japanese had
refused to permit him to go out with any of the armies; and he had
tried to get into Port Arthur with a junk, but Togo had driven him off.
He had very little money, and was tackling China to get to the
Russian lines. It was his idea for the Russians to capture him, and,
incidentally, to show him how they could defend Liaoyang. In a word,
he was eluding Japan, bluffing his way through the interior of China,
and about to enforce certain hospitality from the Russians. A great
soul—in this little man, Butzel.
Routledge delighted in him, but feared for his life. He himself was
playing a similar lone-hand, but he carried Red-beard insignia,
purchased at a big price; and when he had ventured into a river or
sea-junk, he had taken pains to arrange that his receipt for a certain
extortion was hung high on the foremast. Thus was he ever
approved by the fascinating brotherhood of junk pirates. These were
details entirely above the Butzel purse and inclination. The two men
parted in fine spirit after an hour, the adventurer urging his Chinese
up the Taitse toward the Russian lines. He was not so poor as he
had been, and he yelled back joyously to Routledge that there wasn’t
enough trails in this little piker of a planet to keep them from meeting
again.
His words proved true. Poor Butzel rode back in state that afternoon,
his head fallen against the tiller and a bullet hole in his breast. Even
his clothing had been taken. The junk was empty except for the
body. With a heavy heart, Routledge attended to the burial and
marked the spot. That night he rode to Koupangtze, and, by paying
the charges, succeeded in arranging for a brief message to be
cabled to the World-News; also a telegram to the American consul at
Shanghai.
So much is merely a suggestion of the work that told for his paper
that summer. For weeks at a time he was in the saddle, or junking it
by sea and river. Except when driven to the telegraph, he avoided
every port town and every main-travelled road. He was lean, light but
prodigiously strong. A trencherman of ordinary valor would have
dragged out a hateful existence of semi-starvation upon the rations
that sufficed for Routledge; and none but a man in whom a giant’s
strength was concentrated could have followed his travels. The old
Manchurian trails burned under his ponies; and, queerly enough, he
never ruined a mount. He had left Shanghai on the first of February,
ill from confinement, the crowds, and his long sojourn in the great
heat of India. The hard physical life at sea in the Liao gulf and afield
in Manchuria, and, possibly more than anything, his life apart from
the English, restored him to a health of the finest and toughest
texture.
China challenged him. He never could feel the tenderness of regard
for the Yellow Empire that India inspired, but it held an almost equal
fascination. China dwelt in a duller, more alien light to his eyes; the
people were more complicated, less placable and lovable, than
Hindus, but the same mysterious stillness, the same dust of ages, he
found in both interiors; and in both peoples the same imperturbable
patience and unfathomable capacity to suffer and be silent.
Routledge moved in towns almost as unknown to the world as the
Martian surfaces; learned enough of the confusion of tongues to
procure necessities; supplied himself with documents, bearing the
seals of certain dark fraternities, which appeared to pass him from
place to place without harm: and, with a luck that balanced the
handicap of an outcast, and an energy, mental and physical, utterly
impossible to a man with peace in his heart, he pushed through, up
to Liaoyang, an almost incredible season’s work.
More and more the thought was borne upon him during July and
August that the coming big battle would bring to him a change of
fortune—if only a change from one desolation to another. He felt that
his war-service was nearing its end. He did not believe that Liaoyang
was to end the war, but he thought it would close the campaign for
the year; and he planned to conclude his own campaign with a vivid
intimate portrait of the battle. Meanwhile he hung afar from the
Russian and Japanese lines, and little Pingyang had a fire lit for him
and a table spread when he rode in from his reconnoissance.
Late in August, when the artillery began, Routledge crossed to the
south bank of the Taitse with a pair of good horses, and left them
about two miles to the west of the city with a Pingyang servant who
had proven trustworthy. On the dawn of the thirtieth he made a wide
detour behind Oku, nearly to Nodzu’s lines, and watched the battle
from Sha peak—one of the highest points of the range. He had
studied Liaoyang long through the intricate Chinese maps; and as
the heights had cleared the fighting-field for Bingley, so now did
Routledge grasp the topography from his eyrie during that first day of
the real battle. Similarly also, he hit upon Kuroki’s flank movement as
the likeliest strategy of the Japanese aggression, and he came to
regard it as a fact before starting for the free cable at Wangcheng
the following night.
This day netted nothing in so far as the real battle color was
considered. That night he closed up on Oku’s rear, crossing a big
valley and climbing a lesser range. Daylight found him in a densely
thicketed slope overlooking the city and the Japanese command. In
that hot red dawn, he beheld the bivouac of the Islanders—a
crowded valley stretching away miles to the east in the fast lifting
gloom; leagues of stirring men, the faint smell of wood-smoke and
trampled turf, the gray, silent city over the reddened hills, the slaty
coil of the river behind.
The mighty spectacle gripped the heart of the watcher; and there
came to him, with an awful but thrilling intensity, the whole story of
the years which had prepared this amphitheatre for blood on this
sweet last summer day.... Oppression in Tyrone; treachery in India;
the Anglo-Japanese alliance; the Russo-Japanese war—a logical
line of cause and effect running true as destiny, straight as a
sunbeam through all these huge and scattered events—holding all
Asia in the palm of history! Farther back, to the Kabul massacre, was
to be traced the red history of this day—the mad British colonel;
Shubar Khan!... And what did the future hold? If Russia called the
French and Germans to her aid, England, by treaty, was called to the
aid of Japan. America might be drawn by the needs of England, or
for the protection of her softening cluster of Philippine grapes.
Famine in a Tyrone town; a leak in one Tyrone patriot’s brain—and a
world-war!...
The click of a rifle jerked Routledge out of his musings. A Japanese
lieutenant and a non-commissioned officer were standing twenty
paces away. The enlisted man had him covered.
 TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
ROUTLEDGE STRIKES A CONTRAST BETWEEN
THE JAPANESE EMPEROR AND THE JAPANESE
FIGHTING-MAN, WHILE OKU CHARGES INTO A
BLIZZARD OF STEEL

Queerly enough, Routledge’s first thought was that the moment of

the wound had come, but this was out of the question. These men
would not fire at him. They would send him to the rear under a
guard; or, worse, escort him to the command where the other
correspondents were held. The Englishmen would then suggest to
the Japanese that their captive had once proved a traitor to England,
and that it would be well to look deep into his present business, lest
he repeat.... He would miss the battle, be detained for a Russian spy
—and Noreen would hear.
Routledge was ordered to approach, and obeyed, swallowing
Failure. The lieutenant spoke English, but disdained to look at
proffered credentials. The sergeant gripped Routledge’s arm, and his
superior led the way down the slope through the lines of troops.
Many of the little soldiers of Oku were eating rice and drinking tea
from bowls; some were bathing their bodies, others cleansing their
teeth with great zeal, using soaps and pointed sticks. These meant
to be gathered unto their fathers that day with clean mouths. Down
and forward, the American was led, no word being spoken until they
were in the midst of Oku’s front. Here was the field headquarters of
some high officer of the left wing. Routledge breathed a hope that
action would be joined before he was ordered back. The unknown
commander stood in the centre of a thick protecting cordon of men.
Evidently he was too rushed at present to attend the case of the
detained civilian. Aides and orderlies spurred out with dispatches,
and others riding in took their places.
Three or four minutes had passed when certain commands went
ripping down the unformed lines and action was indeed joined. The
lieutenant was brushed away in the torrent of infantry which just now
swept over them, but the sergeant held grimly to his prisoner’s arm.
Oku had ordered the first charge of the day. This was the reeking red
splash on the map of all the world.
The soldiers leaped over Routledge and his captor. Shielding his
head from their boots and rifle-butts, the American looked deep into
the sweating brown faces that rushed past—red, squinting eyes,
upper lips twisted with a fury they could not have explained, the
snarling muscles drawn tight—and not a zephyr of fear in the
command! Some of the men still had their eating-sticks and bowls
and paper napkins. One stuffed the contents of a dish of rice into his
mouth as he ran—an eight-pound rifle clapped between his elbow
and ribs.
The correspondent warmed to the human atoms hurtling by and to
the sergeant who stuck so fast to his arm. There was something
tremendous in the delusion of these poor pawns who were doing
their cruel work so well. There was an infernal majesty in the huge
gamble for the old gray walls of Liaoyang on this gorgeous
morning.... War is immense and final—for the big devil-clutched
souls who make it—an achievement, indeed, to gather and energize
and hurl this great force against an enemy, but what a rotten
imposition upon the poor little obscure men who fight, not a tithe the
richer if they take all Asia! So the thoughts of Routledge surged. Into
the havoc, from time to time, he threw a sentence, wrung from the
depths of his understanding:
“... Once a father threw his children out of the sleigh to hold back a
wolf-pack—as he whipped his horse to the village. Would you call
such a man ‘father’?... Yet you call a nation ‘fatherland’ that hurls you
now to the wolves!... Oh, ye of mighty faith!... Pawns—poor pawns—
of plague, famine, war around the world—God, tell us why the many
are consumed to ashes at the pleasure of the few!... Oh, glorious
Patriotism—what sins are committed in thy name!”
The great system of Russian fortifications now opened fire upon the
Japanese charge. Men were falling. The bulk of the infantry
avalanche had passed, and smoke was crowding out the distances.
The long p-n-n-n-g of the high bullets, and the instant b-zrp of the
close ones, were stimulus for that fast, clear thinking which so often
comes close to death. Routledge’s brain seemed to hold itself aloof
from his body, the better to grasp and synthesize the startling actions
of the present.
The smoke blurred all but a finger-bone of the valley; yet from that
part he could reconstruct the whole horrid skeleton of a Twentieth-
century crime.... The brown line of Japanese rolled up against the
first Russian trench. Routledge thought of toy soldiers, heads bent
forward, legs working, and guns of papier maché in bayonet charge.
The works wore a white ruff of smoke, and its lace was swept by
stray winds down over the fallen....
The grip upon his arm relaxed. For a moment Routledge thought he
was hit, when the blood rushed down the veins of his arm where the
tightened fingers had been. He was free—and at what a cost! The
little sergeant was down—his legs wriggling and beating against the
American’s, the “red badge of courage” widening on his breast.
Routledge bent over him and looked long into the dying face—
forgetting the world and the war, forgetting all but the spirit behind
the hour.
The face was brown, oriental. In the corner of the mouth was a flake
of rice, and the coarse-grained dust of Manchuria was over all. The
eyes were turned back, and the ears were bad. Evolution was young
in the shape of the head and the cut of those ears—small, thick,
close to the skull, criminal ears. But the mouth was beautiful! It was
carved as if some God had done it—and on a fine morning when joy
was abroad in the world—and the perfection of the human mouth
was the theme of the day.
Routledge had not even water to give, but he said, “Hello.”
Deep understanding came to him from the dying face. He saw what
it meant to this little soldier to go out for his Emperor—saw the faith
and pity of it all. It was the smiling face of a man who comes home
after years of travail to the marvel of a loved woman’s arms.
“Sayonara!” the fine lips muttered. One of the sweetest and saddest
words of human speech—this Japanese farewell.
“Sayonara!” Routledge repeated.... The body jerked itself out, but the
smile remained. The whole story of the Japanese conquest stirred in
Routledge’s brain. It was all in the smile upon the face of the guard—
all in that one perishable portrait of joy.
Routledge had once seen the Emperor for whom this soldier died
with a smile. Though it was forenoon, he had been forced to put on
evening-clothes for the Presence. Mutsuhito came back to his mind
as he bent over the fresh corpse....
“He has no such mouth as yours, little sergeant,” he said in a swift,
strange fashion. “His head is not so good as your hard, bad head,
though his ears are better. He was dazed with champagne, as you
have never been. He had the look of an epileptic, and they had to
bring him a red-blooded woman of the people to get a son from him
—and that son a defective!... A soft, inbred pulp of a man, without
strength of will or hand or brain, and God only knows what rudiment
of a soul—such is the Lord of Ten Thousand Years, whom you die
for with a smile. You are greater than the Empire you serve, little
sergeant—greater than the Emperor you die for; since he is not even
a clean abstraction.... God pity you—God pity you all!”
The sun sent streamers into the white smoke drapery upon the
Russian bank. The Island Empire men were thrashing against it.
They met with their breasts the fire that spurted continuously from
the ledges. One man of a Japanese company lived to gain the top of
the trench. He was skewered on Russian bayonets and shaken
down among his writhing fellow-soldiers, as the wing of a chicken is
served upon a waiting plate. Running, crawling, Routledge made his
way down and forward.
The Japanese hope lives high above the loss of companies. It was a
glad morning for the Island Empire men, a bright task they were
given to do. Other companies, full quota, were shot forward to tread
upon the dead and beat themselves to death against the
entrenchment. A third torrent was rolled against the Russians before
the second had suffered a complete blood-letting.... Routledge saw
one five-foot demon wielding his rifle-butt upon the rim of the trench,
in the midst of gray Russian giants. For an instant he was a human
tornado, filled with the idea to kill—that Brownie—then he was
sucked down and stilled. Routledge wondered if they completely
wiped out the little man’s smile at the last.
He was ill from the butchery, and his mind was prone to grope away
from the bleeding heart of things; still, he missed little of the great
tragedy which unfolded in the smoke. And always Oku, unparalleled
profligate of men, coiled up his companies and sprung them against
a position which Napoleon would have called impregnable—Oku,
whose voice was quiet as a mystic’s prayer. The thought came to
Routledge that the women of America would tear down the capitol at
Washington with their hands, if the walls contained a monster who
had spent the blood of their sons and lovers as Oku was doing now.
A new tumult in the air! It was like an instant horrid crash of drums in
the midst of a violin solo. Artillery now roared down upon Oyama’s
left wing.... The wildest dream of hell was on. Routledge, crawling
westward through the pit of fire, saw a platoon of infantry smashed
as a cue-ball shatters a fifteen block in pool.... Westward under the
Russian guns, he crawled through the sun-shot, smoke-charged
shambles, miraculously continuing alive in that thick, steady,
annihilating blizzard of steel—his brain desperate with the rush of
images and the shock of sounds. Over a blood-wet turf he crawled,
among the quivering parts of men....
Silence. Oku stopped to breathe and pick up the fragments.... From
far up on the Russian works—it was like the celestial singing in the
ears of the dying—began a distant, thrilling music. Some regiment or
brigade, swinging into the intrenchments to relieve a weary
command, had burst into song.... Once before Routledge had caught
a touch of this enchantment, during the Boxer Rebellion. He had
never been able to forget Jerry Cardinegh’s telling of the Russian
battle-hymns at Plevna.... Great emotions bowed him now. Another
terrace of defense caught up the song, and the winds that cleared
the reeking valley of smoke carried along the vibrant inspiration.
Every Russian heart gripped the grand contagion. From terrace to
terrace, from trench to trench, from pit to emplacement, that glorious
thunder stalked, a company, a battery, a brigade, at a stride. Each
voice was a raw, dust-bitten shout—the whole a majestic harmony,
from the cannon-meat of Liaoyang! Sons of the North, gray, sodden,
sorrow-stunted men of pent misery and unlit souls—Finlander,
Siberian, Caspian, Caucasian—hurling forth their heart-hunger in a
tumult of song that shook the continent. The spirit of All the Russias
giving tongue—the tragedy of Poland, the clank of chains, the
mockery of palaces, the iron pressure of frost, the wail of the wolf-
pack on frozen tundras, the cry of the crushed, the blind groping of
the human to God—it was all in that rhythmic roar, all the dreadful
annals of a decadent people.
As it was born, so it died,—that music,—from terrace to terrace, the
last wavering chant from out the city walls. The little Japanese made
no answer. Routledge could not help but see the mark of the beast in
contrast. It wasn’t the Russians that bothered Oku, but the Russian
position. Kuroki would pull them out of that.... Song or steel, they
would take Liaoyang. They prepared to charge again.

In the disorder of the next charge Routledge crossed the railroad and
passed out of the Japanese lines. Late afternoon, as he hurried
westward for his horses, he met the eyes of Bingley. He was not
given a chance to pass another way. The race for the cable was on.
 TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
ROUTLEDGE ENCOUNTERS THE “HORSE-
KILLER” ON THE FIELD OF LIAOYANG, AND
THEY RACE FOR THE UNCENSORED CABLE AT
SHANHAIKWAN

To each man the intention of the other was clear as the purpose of a
fire-department’s run. One of them would file the first uncensored
story of the great battle. Bingley had given up his chance to follow
the Japanese army, and had set his stony face to freedom for this
end—and England could not have horsed a man more unwhippable.
Routledge, striding into the sunset, toward the place he had left his
mounts, discovered with a smile that his pace was quickening,
quickening. The character of the man just passed was an inspiration
to rivalry. Moreover, from a newspaper standpoint, the issue at hand
was big among dreams. The Great God, News, is a marvellous
master. Would England or America be first to connect with
Manchuria by wire? World-News or Thames? If New York beat
London, Dartmore would trace the story.... Dartmore had been a
savage. Bingley had been a savage.
Routledge laughed aloud. He had long since put away any
resentment toward either of these men, but there was vim, and glow,
in getting into the struggle again. He felt that he had earned his entry
to this race. He had counted upon taking the chances of discovery.
Already Bingley had seen him, and the word would go back; but the
result of it would require time. He had long planned to close his own
campaign for the year, even if the Japanese pushed on to Mukden.
He would go deeper, past following, into China—even to the Leper
Valley.
It was a momentous incident to Routledge—this meeting with the
“Horse-killer.” The quick, startled, sullen look on the face of Bingley
—not a flicker of a smile, not even a scornful smile, to answer his
own—had meant that Cardinegh, dead or alive, had not told.
Bingley found the highway two miles west of the railroad, and
spurred south in the darkness at the rate of about seven miles an
hour. He meant to do six or seven hours of this before resting his
mount.... Between twelve and one in the morning—and at most
twenty miles to go! If there was anything left in his horse, after an
hour’s rest, so much the better. Otherwise he could do it on foot,
crossing the river above Fengmarong by six in the morning. This
would leave two hours for the last two or three miles into
Wangcheng. As for the other, without a mount, Bingley did not
concede it to be within human possibility for him to reach the
Chinese Eastern at any point to-morrow morning. Evidently
Routledge had not planned to get away so soon. It would take
eighteen hours at least to reach Wangcheng by the river, and
Routledge, aiming westward, seemed to have this route in view....
With all his conjecturing, Bingley could find no peace of mind. Even if
Routledge had not planned to reach travelled-lines to-morrow, would
not the sight of a rival, with his speed signals out and whistling for
right of way, stir him to competition? Such was his respect for the
man who had passed on, that Bingley could not find serenity in
judging the actions and acumen of Routledge by ordinary weights
and measures.
Any other British correspondent would have hailed the outcast with
the old welcome, notwithstanding the race-challenge which his
appearance involved. On the morning he left Tokyo, five months
before, Bingley had also promised Miss Cardinegh to carry the news
of her father’s confession and death to Routledge, if he should be
the first to find him. It did not occur to Bingley now, isolated as he
had been so long, that this was the first time Routledge had been
seen. Moreover, in their last meeting, at the Army and Navy ball,
there had been a brief but bitter passage of words. Bingley was not
the man to make an overture when there was a chance of its being
repelled. Finally, the sudden discovery of a trained man, with
carnage behind and the cable ahead, was a juggernaut which
crushed the life from every other thought in his brain.
Routledge found his horses in excellent condition. The Chinese
whom he had brought from Pingyang had proved faithful before, but
with all the natives, not alone the banditti and river-thieves,
emboldened by the war, the safe holding of his property was a joy
indeed. At seven in the evening, the sky black with gathering storm,
he left his servant, rich in taels and blessings, and turned westward
along the Taitse river-road. This was neither the best nor the shortest
way, but Routledge preferred to be impeded by ruts, even by
chasms, than by Japanese sentries. With Bingley’s full panoply of
credentials it would have been different.
Sixty-five miles to ride, a river to cross, an audience with Consul
Milner, a train to catch, to say nothing of enforced delays by the
possible interest of the Japanese in his movements—all in fourteen
hours.
As Bingley conjectured, the chance meeting had hastened the plan
of Routledge. He had intended to reach Wangcheng the following
day, but by no means in time for the morning train; in fact, he had
determined to tarry at the American consulate until the decision from
the battle should come in. Wangcheng had changed hands since his
last call at the port, but he counted on the wise and winning
American to be as finely appreciated by the Japanese as he had
been by the Russians. Milner would get the returns from the battle
almost as soon as the Japanese commander at the base. The one
word victory or defeat, and a line covering the incidental strategic
cause, was all that Routledge needed for a startling story. He had
mastered the field, and Oku had supplied a rainbow of pigments.
Bingley, having left the field, would not loiter on the road to the cable,
nor would he halt before reaching an uncensored cable—therefore
Shanhaikwan to-morrow night! Routledge did not care to accept
second place, if hard-riding would win first. He faced the longer
journey, and also set apart an hour before train-time for an interview
with the Consul. It was eminently plain to him that this day had
marked the crisis of the great battle, even if it had not already ended
with nightfall. The unparalleled fury of Oku’s assaults was significant
to this effect. To-morrow would doubtless bring the verdict; and all
day to-morrow he would be on train to Shanhaikwan, in touch with
Milner by wire at every station. Even if he reached the cable with the
battle still raging, he could file the story of the great conflict, as it was
synthesized in one man’s brain—up to the point of the historic last
sentence.... Even as he rode, the lines and sentences fused in his
mind, a colorful, dashing, galvanic conception that burned for
expression.
On and on, hours and miles; cloud-bursts and flashes of lightning to
show the trail ahead—until he came to doubt his watch, even the
dawn of a new day, in the pressure of the illusion formed of dragging
hours and darkened distances.
The rains helped to keep his mounts fresh. Every two hours he
changed. The beasts had been long together, and either led with a
slackened thong. He ran them very little, and it was after midnight
before he dulled the fine edge of their fettle. They were tough, low-
geared Tartar beasts, heavy-breasted, short in the pasterns, and
quartered like hunters—built for rough trails and rough wear.
Routledge slapped and praised them, riding light. It would take more
than one gruelling night under such a horseman to break their
hearts.
Two hours after midnight the rain ceased, and the wrung clouds
parted for the moon. The hill country was passed. Routledge moved
swiftly along the river-flats. It was the second night he had not slept,
and his fatigue was no trifle, but he was drilled to endure. It was not
in him to make a strongly reckonable matter out of muscular stiffness
and cuticle abrasions. True, rain softens the glaze of a saddle, and
long riding on the sticky leather tears the limbs, but Routledge had a
body that would obey so long as consciousness lasted. He used it
that night.
Five-thirty in the morning; daylight; sixty miles put behind. Ahead far
in the new day he discerned the Japanese outposts of Fengmarong;
and on the right hand was the big, mottled Liao, swollen with flood. If
he were to be detained by the Japanese, he preferred it to be on the
opposite bank—the Wangcheng side. Routledge rode up to the ferry-
scow and called for service. Yellow babies were playing like
cinnamon-cubs on the shore; two women were cooking rice and fish;
two men were asleep in the sail-tackle. These he aroused. They
helped him with the horses, half-lifting the weary, trembling beasts
aboard. Cups of tea; rice with black dressing, as the scow made the
opposite landing at a forty-five degree angle! A quick and safe
crossing; and two hours for the Japanese lines, the American
Consul, and the Chinese Eastern!... A distant call through the
morning light! Bingley, horseless, imperiously demands the return of
the craft to the Fengmorang bank.
Routledge had hoped to be missed by the other, at least until train-
time. He smiled at the compelling incidents of the race thus far, and
at the surpassing prospects—even though he chilled at the thought
that the Japanese in Wangcheng would have big excuse to detain
him if Bingley intimated that his rival had once betrayed England to
the Russian spies on the Indian border. Consul Milner would sweat,
indeed, to free him against that....
Yet Routledge had a feeling that he would win against Bingley. Work
had always favored him. So far he had borne out the prophecy that
he would not be wounded in battle, in a manner past astonishment. It
was no less than a miracle—his escape from the firing of both
armies at Liaoyang. Often during the night-ride he had thought of the
wound that was to come to him—thought with a chill of dread of the
lawless country he passed through. Now, with Wangcheng ahead,
and in touch with the safe-lines of foreign-travel—the chance
seemed minimized once more. There must be significance in this....
He looked back and saw the Chinese beating up against the river to
the Fengmarong landing, where Bingley waited, doubtless frothing
his curb.
At the edge of the town Routledge was arrested by a five-foot
Japanese sentry, and was locked with his world tidings in a garrison,
lately Russian, which overlooked Wangcheng’s little square. He
wrote “A. V. Weed” on a slip of paper and asked to have it taken to
Consul Milner; then sat down by the barred window to watch the
Consulate across the Square. It was now seven o’clock. The train
left in an hour, and the station was a mile away. Minutes dragged by.
An enlivening spectacle from the window. The “Horse-killer” is being
borne across the Square under a Japanese guard! The little sentries
at the edge of town have been busy, this sweet-smelling morning
after the rain! Even at the distance, Routledge perceives that the
Englishman’s face is warmed with a lust for murder, and he hears
the Englishman’s voice demanding his Consul. Bingley is borne into
the garrison, and his voice and step are heard throughout the halls.
The voice continues—as he is locked in the apartment next to
Routledge’s.
Fifteen dreadful minutes. Bingley is a noisy, unlovely devil in the next
room, beating against his bars. Routledge remembers what Hans
Breittmann said of the caged orang-outang: “There is too much ego
in his cosmos.” The “Horse-killer” does not know that his rival is so
near—as he cries unto his heaven of martial law, for artillery to shoot
his way out of this town of beastly, pig-headed Japanese coolies!... A
Consul appears in the Square. It is not the natty Milner, but an
elderly Briton, with a cane and a presence, who just now asks to be
shown to Mr. Bingley.... The two talk softly for several minutes—a
harsh interval for Routledge.
“I shall do what I can as promptly as possible, Mr. Bingley—trust
me,” concludes the Consul, and his cane sounds upon the flags
once more—diminuendo.
“Remember, I must be on my way at once,” the “Horse-killer” shouts
after him.
Seven-twenty. Where was Milner?... Routledge wondered bitterly if
the Gods of War had turned their faces from him at last. A low laugh
from Bingley. Milner was crossing the Square hastily, but did not
approach the garrison—instead was admitted to the big building
occupied by the Japanese headquarters.
“God, I’d hate to have to depend upon an American Consul at a time
like this,” is heard from the “Horse-killer.”
Routledge’s nerve was taxed to smile at this.... Seven-thirty. Consul
Milner reappears in the Square, this time followed by two Japanese
officers of rank.... Routledge’s door is unlocked, and he is called out
into the hall.
“This is the gentleman—and I’ll vouch for him.” Milner observes,
holding out his hand to Routledge. “Weed, my boy, how are you?
Missed the train last night at Yopanga, I suppose, and came down
the river. Didn’t you know we’re a closed port down here?”
“Yes, but I knew you were here, Consul. The battle’s on at Liaoyang,
I understand.”
The eyes of the men managed to meet. The Japanese officers
bowed politely, and the two Americans left the garrison.... Bingley’s
voice is loudly upraised. The Japanese officers politely inform him
that the order for his release has not yet reached them.
“Milner,” said Routledge, “would it complicate matters if I fell upon
your neck and wept?”
“Wait till we catch the train, Weed. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” the
Consul whispered.
“Badly.”
“So I concluded when I got the slip from you. That’s why I went to
headquarters to fix things before coming here—saved a few minutes.
Also I told my Chino to get up the carriage. It’ll be ready.... Our
British friend will have to get his business transacted at once or he
won’t get off for Shanhaikwan this morning.... Great God, Weed, did
you get the battle—any of it?”
“I was with the left wing all day yesterday, Consul—it seems like a
month ago. Oku was beating his brains out against the Russian
intrenchments.”
They were crossing the Square. Bingley’s voice reached them: “Oh, I
say, American Consul, prod up my man a bit—won’t you?”
The agonized face behind the bars took the edge off his own
success to Routledge. He knew what these moments meant to the
“Horse-killer.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not on speaking terms with the British Consul,”
Milner observed lightly to Routledge, as they hurried to the carriage.
“I take it that Kuroki has crossed the Taitse—what have you heard?”
Routledge inquired quickly.
“Just that much,” Milner replied. “The Japanese here say that Oyama
will enter the city to-day. Kuroki pontooned the river two days ago.
What you saw was the terrific effort of the Japanese to hold the bulk
of the Russian army in the city and below while Kuroki flanked.”
“Exactly. I’m doing the story on those lines. I’ll be in Shanhaikwan to-
night. You’ll get the decision to-day probably—wire me anywhere
along the route, Consul?”
“Of course.”
“The World-News will get you Tokyo for your next post,” Routledge
said with a laugh. “All I need is the single sentence—‘Oyama wins’ or
‘Oyama loses.’ By the way, the Japanese have got two good horses
of mine——”
“I’ll see to them.”
The carriage reached the station at two minutes before eight.
“It looks as if you had it all your own way, Weed,” Milner observed
with a laugh. “God! you’ve got the world at your feet—the greatest
newspaper chance in years. You’ll give ’em a story that will rip up the
States. Show ’em pictures—never mind the featureless skeleton—
show ’em pictures, Weed!”
“I’ll try, Consul,” said Routledge, with feeling.
The station-boys were clanging their bells. The eyes of both men
were fixed upon a clot of dust far down the road.
“Weed, my boy,” said Milner excitedly, “the race isn’t won yet. Your
rival is going to make the train.”
The huge figure of the “Horse-killer” was sprinting toward them, less
than two hundred yards away.