Harold Macgrath

The Yellow Typhoon Harold Macgrath

A naval officer, trig in his white twill, strode along the Escolta, Manila's leading thoroughfare. There was something in his stride that suggested anger; and the settled grimness of his lips, visible between his mustache and short beard, and the hard brightness of his blue eyes emphasized this suggestion. He was angry, but it was a cold anger, a kind of clear-minded fury which often makes calculation terrible. He had been carrying this anger in his heart for six bitter years. It was something like glacial ice; it moved always, but never seemed to lose either hardness or configuration. To-day it had the effect of the north wind-that almost forgotten north wind of his native land-in that it winnowed all the chaff from his mind and left one clear thought.