The Wind That Tramps the World
tilely as he passed. They were not pleased with his manner. They did not like to be the pivots of his scrutiny. He did not mind their attitude. He had traveled much. He was used to eccentricities. And yet he felt ill at ease. Such walks were not enjoyable.
Nevertheless one day he walked farther than usual. The City was small. At last the houses grew less frequent until finally he arrived at the country beyond. Even then he did not stop until he reached a long low house, Chinese in style. In the center was what seemed to be a tall pagoda whose colorful façade was at strange variance with the drab little city through which he had just passed. Before the doorway of the house sat an old Chinaman. He was so old, shrivelled and shrunken, and his face was so criss-crossed with lines he appeared almost like a mummy. Age seemed to have turned him to stone. He sat without blinking. His parchment-like skin was as brown as tanned leather. On his chin was a wisp of a beard which eddied fantastically about in the sun. His lips were compressed into a thin line. His eyes looked dully out from half-closed lids. His slant brows would have made his face distinctive even if it had not been distinctive in any case. He was completely wrapped in a great cloak of a tantalizing color. It was blue, like the midnight sky yet sometimes as the light struck it it seemed to flame green. On his head was a square hat, small and black, although oblong would perhaps be more descriptive of it. It was like a great black ebony domino.
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