YOU know Shelford? What! Don’t know Shelford of the Customs? Then you’ve never heard how he won the Ping Tu Derby. Shelford, as I said, was in the Customs, and fate made him spend many years in the port of Ping Tu. You probably won’t find Ping Tu on the map, but, then, maps of China are often inaccurate, and the varieties of European spelling adopted by cartographers have led to confusion. Anyway Ping Tu is a not unimportant town. The river is navigable above it for some fifty miles, and Shelford was the head representative in that community of the Imperial Chinese Maritime Customs. In addition to this he probably knew more about the Chinese than any other European in the neighbourhood, and was moreover an all-round sportsman.

There were many sportsmen in Ping Tu, or, rather, everyone of the small community was entitled to style himself so. They possessed a club on the river bank where cocktails and whiskies and sodas were consumed, billiards and bowls could be indulged in, and, moreover, where ladies could entertain and be entertained on the verandah between the hours of three and seven in the afternoon.

Ping Tu, in addition, possessed a golf-links and a racecourse, and of the racecourse and Kwa Niu’s memorable Derby I will tell.

The Ping Tu race-meeting took place annually in February, and everyone who could afford to do so entered a horse. Horse, I say—I mean a China pony. And of course the great event of the meeting was the Derby. The ponies came from up North, and were drawn for by the subscribers as one draws in a sweepstake. Having drawn your pony, the next thing was to train it, and for many weeks the performances of these unattractive animals formed the sole topic of conversation at the Club bar, in verandahs, on the bund, and in ladies’ boudoirs.

Shelford drew a most unpromising brute of a flea-bitten Mongol pony. It was a pale yellow colour, had a head much too heavy for its forelegs, and a nose like a Roman senator. In addition to its unattractive appearance it possessed a violent dislike of white men, and in the first week bit the biceps out of a “ma foo” and the knee-cap off a grass-cutter. Shelford might have condoned these offences had the brute shown any promise, but the wretched animal proved to be exceptionally slow in its trials, so he named it “Kwa Niu” (The Snail).

The training proceeded, excitement in view of the forthcoming races in Ping Tu grew intense, and moreover a new Englishman had arrived in the port. He was a lank callow youth, fresh from Ireland, and burdened with the name of Gubbins.

Gubbins might be described as “young.” China had till the last few weeks been nothing to him but a name. Still, here he was, clerk in the firm of Sardine and Butterworth, and full of that home energy so often lacking in the old China hand.

Gubbins with his hearty manners and youthful enthusiasm at once won his way into the hearts of society in Ping Tu, and Shelford, in default of a better jockey (everyone having refused to ride the now famous Kwa Niu), engaged Gubbins to ride for him in the Ping Tu Derby.

About a fortnight before the race-meeting the number of corpses that floated down the river became burdensome. Many of the men and officers in the merchant ships lying in the stream were attacked with typhoid, and from all accounts there was a severe epidemic raging in Whang Chai, a town some six miles higher up the river. Something had to be done, as the matter was becoming serious, and Shelford, from his intimate knowledge of the language and ideas of thought of the natives, was despatched in a steam launch to Whang Chai to discover the state of affairs, and if possible to suggest some means of arresting the ravages of the disease. Shelford arrived at the highly insanitary little town, and without further delay interviewed the head official, one To Phat, an indolent and superstitious civil mandarin. The chief military officer, a man with Western ideas and well educated, was at the time absent from Whang Chai. Shelford found the people dying by hundreds in the dirty little town, and as far as he could see there was every prospect of their continuing to do so until they appreciated the fact that drinking-water need not necessarily be drawn from the main sewers.

To Phat, comfortably seated in his yamen, admitted the fact of the enormous death-rate then registered in Whang Chai, but to all Shelford’s suggestions of its cause or prevention he turned the deaf ear of pompous ignorance. He—To Phat—could put his finger at once on the cause of the dreadful mortality. The disease was perfectly natural and only to be expected; in fact, the whole matter had been satisfactorily explained to him by a certain Ching. Ching was therefore sent for that he might explain to the dull-witted foreign devil why this fatal epidemic harassed the peace-loving citizens of Whang Chai. Shelford at once recognised in Ching the typical bully of a yamen runner, the promoter of disturbances, the paid spy and informer. However, Shelford listened with polite attention to the lying scoundrel.

Ching explained that, although perhaps unknown to the honourable stranger, still it was a matter of universal knowledge in Whang Chai that the gentle slope on which the town had the felicity to be built was occupied by a dragon. This benign animal had for centuries caused innumerable blessings to fall on the happy inhabitants, but that recently certain grave indignities had been offered him. Firstly, foreigners, preachers of strange doctrines, had built a house on the dragon’s head: this had resulted in the loss of several vessels trading from Whang Chai; but the crowning insult had been the building of a school-house on their benefactor’s stomach. This final indignity had been visited on the erring town by pestilence, and what the end would be no one could foresee.

Shelford eyed Ching during this recital, and the bully appreciated the fact that Shelford read his coward heart like a book; but the flabby To Phat sat in greasy self-satisfaction, and was politely relieved when Shelford withdrew from the audience.

Shelford then visited the mission-house. On his walk through the town he saw many signs that made his face grave. The pastor welcomed him effusively, and was delighted to talk with a fellow white man. He admitted with sorrow the frightful ravages of the epidemic, but was evidently quite unaware that any danger threatened himself or his, and spoke cheerfully of the progress that Christianity ought to make in Whang Chai in the future. Shelford also found out that Ching, the yamen runner, had been one of the earliest of their converts, but had sadly fallen away from grace, and after repeated petty thefts had been dismissed with disgrace for blackmailing the girl converts who attended the mission school.

On leaving the mission to return to the inn at which he proposed to sleep, Shelford had further cause for anxiety. He had already observed that he was being everywhere followed, but now he saw placards freshly posted about the town. These cunningly worded notices urged calmness and abstinence from violence against foreigners; they further alluded to the present prevailing epidemic, and besought the people by piety and prayer to discover the cause of the present disasters and the means to be adopted for restoring health to the community.

The notices were all unsigned, but in the present state of feeling of the populace they amounted to nothing more nor less than an incitement to murder the missionaries. Shelford decided not to send his steam launch back to Ping Tu for assistance, as that would cut off his and the missionaries’ only hope of escape. Then, again, any appearance of fear or running away would probably precipitate matters, and a riot would ensue. He therefore unconcernedly strolled to his inn and ordered supper. Before, during, and after the meal he talked with large numbers of the townsfolk who came out of curiosity and nearly crushed Shelford against the wall in their eagerness to speak with the foreign devil. The foreign devil good-naturedly endured their importunities, although disagreeably conscious the whole time of the strong anti-foreign feeling that existed. So early in the evening he feigned sleepiness, and politely saying good-night to his unbidden guests, requested the landlord to show him his sleeping-room. The room to which the obsequious landlord conducted him was as bare as one would expect, and the kang, or raised oven, on which the guest must sleep was directly in front of the door, in which were numerous holes and cracks.

Shelford quickly retired to bed, and blew out the miserable oil-wick which served as a lamp. Then noticing that all was quiet in the inn, he cautiously got up, put on his clothes in the dark, arranged the blankets on the kang to look as if a man were sleeping there, and sat in a corner of the room with his revolver ready, awaiting events.

He waited for quite two hours before anything occurred, and then faint footsteps could be heard approaching the door, and a glimmer of light appeared through its chinks. There was some whispering. The light rays through the chinks grew brighter, and at last a brilliant ray of light was directed through a hole in the door on the apparently sleeping figure on the kang. The light steadied on the recumbent figure, and then pistol shots rang out with a deafening noise in the small room, filling it with smoke and causing Shelford to grip his pistol and jump to his feet ready to sell his life dearly. Then a conversation occurred outside the door in which Shelford easily recognised the voice of the bully Ching, who asserted that the man was dead. Another voice urged him to go in and assure himself of the fact that the man on the kang was really dead. Ching argued that the sleeping figure had not moved after the explosion of their pistols, and that consequently he could not be asleep but must have been killed. Everyone outside the door seemed to show reluctance to enter the room, and after further whispered conversation the would-be murderers departed, but not before Shelford had heard Ching say—

“Now we have slain this devil we can quietly kill the missionaries to-morrow night and loot their house. The men in the glass boat (steam launch) have been bribed, so will tell nothing.”

After this they retired. Shelford left his strained position in the corner, and with his revolver ready to his hand slept on the comfortably warmed kang until daylight.

When he appeared next morning the innkeeper would have fled from fear, had not his desire to “save face” at all cost made him bear an outwardly calm demeanour. Shelford didn’t fail to notice the impression that he created on everyone who saw him in the inn, but he felt that no further attempt on his life would be made during daylight; so having taken breakfast, he told the innkeeper that he should again sleep at the inn that night, and that the previous night he had been so comfortable and had slept so deeply that he thought there must be some beneficial essence in the air of Whang Chai that induced refreshing slumbers.

To go again to the mission-house would arouse suspicion, so Shelford wandered about the town all the forenoon in the hope of accidentally meeting someone from the mission. As time went on he became more and more anxious. That he was being closely watched he knew, and at last he dared no longer wander about apparently aimlessly, so he once more returned to the inn and ate. If only by good providence the missionaries would send a message to him! Two more hours were wasted, Shelford sitting and smoking in apparent calmness in the chief room of the inn, holding conversations with all who addressed him, but inwardly chafing and cursing his forced inaction.

There was now only an hour of daylight left; something had to be done. He called the innkeeper and begged him to send on board the steam launch for a change of clothes and some necessaries, and to order the skiff to wait by the bank till he should arrive and give some further orders for being ready to proceed to Ping Tu at ten o’clock the next morning. After which Shelford, almost bursting with anxiety, left the inn, and again walked through the town praying for the sight of someone from the mission. The people, though offering no molestations, evinced a thinly veiled hostility, and he knew that if he continued to wander about after dark his life would be in danger, but a direct attempt on his part to enter the mission-house might lead to a siege of the place and the massacre of all the inmates.

At last, some fifteen minutes before dark, he met his missionary friend of the day before. Shelford met him calmly and shook hands. He then said in his most matter-of-fact tone: “Don’t show any surprise at what I am going to say; we are now closely watched. Go home at once, put on Chinese clothes, and bring all your people as soon as possible and get to the river, where you’ll find a small white boat. If I’m not there take the boat at once and push off to the launch and make the sailors take you to Ping Tu. You may get through safely, but don’t attempt to bring anything away with you. The next half-hour will, I think, prove rather exciting. Good night!”

The missionary fortunately was a clever man and a bit of an actor—he saw that this was no jest on Shelford’s part but deadly earnest. It was now nearly dark, and the bully Ching’s agents followed close on Shelford’s heels as he proceeded to the inn. On pretext of speaking to the innkeeper, Shelford left the common room and walked towards his host’s private apartments which he knew opened on to a small courtyard, from which there might have been no means of escape, but that it was necessary to risk. He drew the innkeeper into the room, the spies watching them both. Shelford continued in conversation and pushed the door-to with his foot. His host, instantly suspicious, made a movement to reopen it, but Shelford, quick as thought, dealt him a violent blow on the temple with his pistol, and catching the Chinaman as he was falling in a heap, so as to avoid any noise being heard by the spies in the outer room, he laid the unconscious man noiselessly on the floor, still keeping up his conversation in Chinese to deceive the watchers. Then, still talking, he edged towards the courtyard. A hasty glance in the now almost complete darkness showed him that the wall could be easily scaled. Quick as thought he was over and speeding through the empty streets to the water’s edge. As he ran towards the river he was followed by three Chinamen. Should he shoot? His revolver was ready, one of his pursuers tripped and fell, the boat was close at hand, and Shelford was about to turn and fire on his pursuers when—thank God!—he heard an exclamation in English. They were the missionaries, but now others came running with lights. His escape had been noticed! The four of them tumbled into the boat and, falling on the oars, attempted to push off with all their might. The Chinaman in the boat hurled himself on Shelford and shouted to the rapidly approaching Chinese. Wrenching himself free, Shelford struck the man a crushing blow between the eyes and flung him overboard, then, jumping into the stream, with a mighty effort he pushed the boat into deep water just as Ching’s hirelings reached the water’s edge. The boat seemed to be alongside the launch in a few seconds, but already a howling mob with flickering lanterns were lining the bank. Shelford pushed his companions on board and quickly jumped up himself, leaving the small boat to drift down-stream.

“Go forward and get up the anchor at once,” he gasped to the missionaries, who obeyed him with alacrity. Shelford ran to the wheel and found a strange Chinaman standing near it. Quick as thought he took him by the throat, saying, “Cry out and I strangle you!” The man struggled to free himself, but Shelford forced him towards the wire rail of the launch and, bending him backwards over it, gave a side kick to his ankles and tipped him into the river; then running back to the wheel, he rang down to the engine-room.

“Getting up anchor! Stand by to go ahead! The foreign devils are all killed and we must go up-stream, beach the launch, and loot her.”

The Chinaman in the engine-room, thinking one of his fellows was speaking, carried out his orders, and in a few moments the anchor was up and the steam launch moving down-stream towards Ping Tu.

Shelford felt fairly confident now, but there still remained one danger, that of a pursuit in boats; and in the event of their running aground in the dark they would then be captured and——

Slowly the launch crept down the river with Shelford at the wheel, the missionaries sitting near in cowed silence, and everyone longing for the daylight and the passing of the weary night.

Towards dawn one of the missionaries whispered to Shelford—

“My wife feels very faint—the reaction, I suppose. Have you any spirits or wine on board?”

“Good God! Is one of you a woman?” said Shelford. “Yes, there’s whisky in plenty in the cabin. Take her down and let her lie on the settee—and, padrÉ, when you’ve given her some whisky you might bring me a peg and I’ll drink to the health of a brave woman. Forgive me for my seeming brutality, but I thought you were all men. Anyway I think we’ve all earned a drink, and you’ll also find some tins of biscuits in the locker.”

Shelford’s further remarks to himself and the way in which he undeservedly accused himself for lack of feeling for a female in distress were fortunately inaudible and equally fortunately unpublishable.

The whisky-and-soda and biscuits had a wonderful revivifying effect on the small party of Europeans, and now, as the steam launch crept slowly down the river, the first grey streaks of dawn began to appear. The married missionary and his wife were asleep on the settees in the cabin, the other missionary dozed in a cane chair near the wheel, and as the light increased Shelford recognised the land on either side and rang down to the engine-room for full speed ahead. In less than an hour of sunrise they were safe in Ping Tu. Friends came off to meet them, the missionaries were tenderly cared for by the ever hospitable people ashore, the two engine-room hands, to their great surprise, suddenly found themselves arrested for having been participators in the plot to kill the white men, and Shelford proceeded to the British Consul to make his report. A letter of protest was then sent to the obese and somnolent To Phat, but everyone knew that no reforms could take place in the town of Whang Chai till the return of the enlightened military officer, Hop Chu Tung, who was at present away.

Shelford didn’t talk much in the Club, and the missionaries were too bewildered by their exciting few hours to give much of an account of what had happened, so the incident was soon lost in the more important event of the approaching races.

Gubbins had proved full of energy and had been able to walk the famous Kwa Niu round the course, a great advance, as for some time the animal had refused to go between the rails at any price. Now Gubbins was confident that if Kwa Niu started he’d either win or savage every other pony on the track.

At last the opening day arrived. A Ping Tu race-meeting is worthy of a short description.

The racecourse is situated some two miles from the town, and is approached by a good road. The track is laid round a hollow, oval in shape, nearly seven furlongs in length, bounded on one side by the river and on the other by low scrubby hills. The centre is cultivated by market-gardeners to the “n”^th term.

On the outer side, when turning the corner to come down the straight to the winning-post, is a thick clump of screw-pines, but more of that clump anon. Opposite the winning-post is the grand-stand, built of brick, with stalls beneath for the stabling of the ponies. Every lady in Ping Tu goes to the races because she has a new dress from England for the occasion, and every man goes because he has a pony entered or, at least, a share of a pony. There is a paddock of hard bamboo grass, a bar, and a fenced-in promenade for ladies and members, outside which the Chinese swarm in every degree of blue cotton garment, from the newest and most stiff of the well-to-do to the washed-out and carefully-patched garments of the impecunious.

You can depend on fine weather in the month of February in Ping Tu; so every lady feels happy knowing she can wear her best clothes.

There is a general air of holiday in the community when the races begin, business is at a standstill, the men repair to the Club and split their pints of “the boy,” while the ladies put the finishing touches to their toilets. And now everyone is arriving on the course, the English, French, Russian, German, and other Consuls with their wives. The members of all the “hongs,” or business firms, with their belongings, and lastly Cretes, Jews, Arabians, etc., as it says in the Book of Common Prayer.

The British Consul had brought his consular guard of twelve Sikh police, and the Military Governor of Whang Chai had just returned in time to witness the races, and arrived that morning with two hundred Chinese troops to keep the course clear. All was bustle and excitement, the popping of champagne corks mingled with the pleasant hum of innumerable voices, and the Chinese Military Governor, with his Cambridge education, moved everywhere among the assembled crowd talking in perfect English.

Foh, the military official of Whang Chai, had only arrived at his headquarters the day before, and although deeply concerned at finding the mission gutted and at the outrageous treatment Shelford had received, his sporting instincts had led him to attend the races before executing summary justice upon the perpetrators of the outrage. So far Foh had had no opportunity of speaking to Shelford.

And then approached the great event of the day, the Derby. The Pari Mutuel was besieged by the Europeans and wealthier Chinese, and excitement was great as the numbers went up for the race. There were seven starters—Kwa Niu, pink with black cap; Stone Broke, blue and white check; Fuji San, green, white cap; Try Again, cerise; Greyfoot, yellow jacket, blue cap; Dai Nippon, blue and white hoops, yellow cap; and The Dodger, scarlet and old gold quartered.

The race is a mile and a half, and every occupant of the grand-stand was eagerly waiting with glasses fixed on the starting-point to see the ponies off. So keen was their attention that the clamour rising from the swarming hordes of Chinese outside the enclosure was unheard. At last they were off to a good start, and Kwa Niu, acting up to his usual reputation, appears to be left. At once a hail of good-natured chaff fell on Shelford, when all at once the eyes of all in the stand were directed to the railings round the enclosure. A fight of more than usual violence appeared to be going on there: the Sikh police were being assaulted, railings were torn up and used by the Chinese against the Indians, the latter being crushed down by weight of superior numbers. The mob surged across the course, several of the men ran and shut the wooden doors by which the grand-stand was entered. Shelford was the first to grasp the situation. He had recognised Ching urging on the mob. Foh also had seen how grave matters looked and rushed to the edge of the balcony, shouting orders to his soldiers. These, however, were busily tearing off their uniform jackets and mingling with the surging mob. Cries of “Kill! Kill!” resounded on all sides, and a fierce fight proceeded round the doors to the grand-stand between the few remaining Sikhs and the mob. The men tore off the iron rails round the balcony, and, headed by Shelford and Foh, ran to the gates and engaged with the mob, dealing deadly blows right and left on the shaven heads round them. What a position! Here were unarmed Europeans about to be destroyed by a mob of equally unarmed Chinese, and the women above in a frail structure of bricks and wood. Foh was nearly insane with rage. He felt himself more or less responsible for the good behaviour of the people, and here he was, powerless and deserted by his soldiers. The others had to restrain him from rushing into the mob alone to certain death. Now came a diversion. A horseman dashed through the mob at a furious gallop, scattering the people right and left, his steed savagely biting and snapping at everyone within reach. The unknown rider was gone like a flash, and the Chinese returned to the attack. Lustily the white people rained blows on their yellow brethren, and many a blood-stained European proved that the Chinese were getting some home themselves. The fight was desperate as far as the white men were concerned, for were not their women-folk above in the grand-stand. Once again the Chinese drew off with loud cries, and once more this desperate rider appeared; he threw himself from the saddle and joined the small band of defenders, and then a most extraordinary scene was enacted. A small pony, apparently all hoofs and teeth, took on the fight. Savaging, kicking, biting, he rushed among the frightened Chinese, while the exhausted white defenders marvelled at the supernatural animal and regained their breath for a fresh onslaught. The pony was Kwa Niu and his rider Gubbins. Kwa Niu played the very devil with his own compatriots, not because he owed any allegiance to his English owner, but because he was a devil from start to finish.

Suddenly a bugle rang out above the noise of the yelling mob, some horsemen in gaudy silk jackets dashed among the disordered Chinese, and deliverance arrived in the shape of a small party of American marines, headed by a young ensign with drawn sword.

“Why, there’s something doing in this one-horse little burg after all!” quietly remarked the smiling officer as his handful of marines turn and face the mob now fleeing in all directions. “Say, are the ladies all right? Good boys, I knew you’d look after them. Guess the rest of your Derby winners turned up in about time to turn us out.”

Now there was sudden relaxation from grave to gay. People rolled about in uncontrollable laughter, the tears streaming down their cheeks. Even the stolid marines smiled. And the cause for this unexpected merriment was Gubbins. There he stood in a black cap, but otherwise as nature made him. Finding all eyes directed on him, he assumed the colour known as salmon pink. However, his blushes were quickly hidden under a Newmarket coat, provided by someone who had sufficient control over his risibility to think intelligibly. None too soon was the youthful Gubbins covered up, for the ladies were now all anxiety to leave the racecourse and return to the safer protection of their own houses. The American marines and Sikhs escorted the ladies to their houses, guards were stationed and sentries posted about the town, and a somewhat anxious night passed off without further incident.

At an early hour next morning Foh arrived on horseback. He had ridden to Whang Chai and back, and had done many things during the night. He visited the various Consuls and principal business people of the community and explained that Ching and the other ringleaders of the riot had been captured and executed, that he had an efficient guard of fifteen hundred trusted soldiers then on their way to Ping Tu, and that for the prestige of all Europeans it was absolutely necessary that the races should be continued that day. The Europeans were at first doubtful, but they soon saw Foh’s arguments, and in due course the various wives had the proposal laid before them. To the everlasting credit of the tender sex be it told that not a woman hesitated. As the men thought it was the right thing to do, they all did it, and again the smart frocks from “home” adorned the grand-stand of the racecourse.

So far we have not understood why Gubbins made his opportune entry on Kwa Niu clad only in a black cap. The explanation discloses a little side-plot in the drama. In certain parts of the coast of England it used to be the practice of little children when going to bed to pray somewhat as follows: “Please, God, bless father! Please, God, bless mother; and please, God, send a wreck ashore before morning!” The prayer of these innocents possessed a counterpart in the feelings of some of the peaceable people of Ping Tu during race week. Their prayer, however, was that a rider might be thrown at the bend by the screw-pines in order that they might strip him of his coveted gaudy silk coat, his silk breeches, and good leather boots. To assist “providence” it occasionally happened that a jockey’s stirrup leathers were partly cut through with a sharp knife, so that on rounding a corner sharply one leather might give way and so unseat the rider. On this occasion they had chosen Gubbins for their victim, and his leathers were duly faked by his “mah foo.” Everything happened in due order for the benefit of the gentle Celestials. Kwa Niu was well behind the others, and threw his rider at the bend as desired. Gubbins got a nasty toss, and was for a few seconds unconscious, during which time he was stripped of everything except his cap. Suddenly regaining consciousness, he found himself surrounded by Chinese, and jumped up in great excitement, thinking he was about to be murdered. Fortunately for him, Kwa Niu was kicking and bucking around within a few yards. Wild with fear Gubbins rushed at the pony, vaulted into the saddle, and, as we know, went once round the course, and only managed to pull the brute up the second time he reached the grand-stand, where his arrival proved so opportune.

The second day of the races passed off with perfect quiet and order. Foh’s soldiers arrived in good time, and were more than sufficient to overawe the rabble. At last Mrs. British Consul stood up to give the prizes for the various races. The prizes for the first three races are given, and then comes the handsome bowl for the Derby.

“The Derby! Why, Kwa Niu was the only horse that finished!” says everyone, and the blushing Gubbins is pushed forward.

“Objection,” says the American Consul; “he never weighed in.”

“Go and weigh in,” says Shelford.

Of course it was quite unorthodox, but anyway Gubbins got his saddle and, amidst a laughing crowd of men, weighed in wearing a black cap only. Fortunately he had carried over weight, and as he stood his weight was exact. The decision was received with cheer upon cheer. Shelford had undoubtedly won the Derby, and Gubbins, hastily regaining his clothes, was carried before Mrs. British Consul.

Shyly he received the bowl, but when Mrs. Consul said, “I think your colours were pink with a black cap, Mr. Gubbins,” well, Mr. Gubbins’ colours might very well have been described as scarlet. “But we were all too upset to notice you,” kindly added the lady, “and, at all events, we think you and Kwa Niu saved our lives.”

Yes, it was a very popular win, and the missionaries are back in Whang Chai again. The pig-like To Phat has been removed to another district, and the mission-house and school have been rebuilt, and, I am glad to say, their new sites do not in any way encroach on the anatomy of the famous guardian dragon that lives beneath the hill in Whang Chai.