Chapter Seventy-Two: Taking In, Raising, Confronting

Hong Tao paid the money and asked the shop assistant to find him a battered cardboard box, into which he placed all five cricket jars. Carrying the box, he followed the old man out of the shop. Hong Tao hadn’t guessed wrong at all—the old man was a rickshaw puller, transporting goods for others. But his tricycle was unlike any other: all the metal parts gleamed as if made of stainless steel, and a large, pure brass bell hung from the handlebars, the kind that rang crisply with a single tap. The whole vehicle looked neat and spotless, mirroring the old man’s own meticulous appearance.

“Sir, your tricycle is impressive! What make is it?” Hong Tao glanced at the logo, which depicted a little man holding a rifle—a brand he’d never seen before.

“Hehehe, this tricycle is from my father's generation. It's called the German Warrior, from 1925. Unfortunately, you can’t find replacement parts anymore; once something breaks, it’s gone for good. Just like this old man—each day is one less. Hop on, I’ll give you a ride!” The old man patted the genuine leather seat, the hide worn black in places but still glossy.

So, the old man pedaled while the boy rode, heading north. Soon they arrived at the southeast corner of the Beixin Bridge intersection, in front of the Jude Lin Restaurant. The restaurant no longer exists—in the wake of Gui Street’s rise, it became an obstruction and was demolished at the start of this century, replaced by a two-story building. Back in the day, Jude Lin was famous for its stewed pork with fire-baked bread. In his previous life, Hong Tao often came here with his wife for a bowl of this dish—the flavor was authentic.

But in this era, there was no stewed pork to be had, only various stir-fried dishes and white wine or beer. Hong Tao and the old man found a quiet spot inside, ordered three small plates, a bottle of Erguotou, and a glass of beer, then sat down to drink and chat.

“Sir, you’re a Bannerman, aren’t you? Which banner?” Hong Tao could guess the old man’s background from his surname. Those surnamed Tong, Guan, Suo, He, Fu, Na, or Lang were often Bannermen, their names adapted from original Manchu surnames.

“You even know that? My family came from the Plain White Banner,” the old man replied, taking a sip of wine and picking up some lamb’s head meat. He didn’t conceal his origins from Hong Tao.

“Oh, from one of the Upper Three Banners—no wonder you know so much about insect fighting.” As soon as Hong Tao heard this, he understood why the old man was so knowledgeable. Tending birds, playing with insects, cockfighting—these were the favorite pastimes of Bannermen youths during the late Qing and Republican eras.

“That’s right. All I know about these things was passed down from my grandfather’s generation. It’s a pity there’s no use for it now,” the old man replied, sounding desolate—no doubt recalling his family’s former glory.

“Well, the river flows east for thirty years, then west for thirty years. You never know when things might turn around.” Hong Tao tried his best to console the old man, and he meant what he said. In later years, those antiques and curios everyone clamored for were all once toys of the Bannermen, and they flourished again.

“Alright, I’ll take your words as a blessing, but don’t just humor me. Since you’ve treated me to wine, I won’t drink for nothing. Let’s talk about cricket fighting. There’s no use telling you everything at once—you won’t remember it all. But if you can master the art of cricket fighting, that’s something.” The old man didn’t want to dwell on his family’s past and brought the conversation back to crickets.

“Please, go ahead. I’m all ears!” Hong Tao poured himself a glass of beer.

Once the conversation began, there was no end in sight. The old man could really hold his liquor—after downing half a bottle of Erguotou, his face was only slightly flushed, and his speech remained clear. He barely ate, drinking straight from the porcelain cup, talking in between sips. With every story, another cup was emptied.

That evening, Hong Tao felt truly enlightened. He realized he’d stumbled across a rare character in this rickshaw-pulling old man. The rules and nuances of cricket fighting that poured forth could fill a book. Hong Tao only grasped the basics—there was still much detail left unsaid when darkness fell.

“Do you live around here? Hurry home—don’t wander around alone. Take care of those jars; they’re treasures. If you break them, they’re gone for good,” the old man finally remembered that Hong Tao was just a child and shouldn’t be out too late. He ended the conversation, took Hong Tao in his tricycle to the entrance of the alley, and reminded him earnestly. It was clear he truly cherished these old objects.

“Sir, if I have time, I’d love to hear more from you. Where can I find you?” Hong Tao was reluctant to let him go.

“I’m usually working outside the shop, around the Dongsi area. If you want to find me, just ask the other rickshaw drivers. Mention ‘Second Master’ and they’ll know. Thanks for the wine today—next time, I’ll treat you to a big ice cream.” The old man waved his half-empty bottle of Erguotou, humming an opera tune as he pedaled away.

Through this conversation, Hong Tao realized just how intricate cricket fighting was. It wasn’t simply catching a cricket, tossing it in a glass jar, and throwing in a few beans. The tools, knowledge, and techniques involved amounted to a whole discipline—not something that could be explained in a few words.

For now, Hong Tao had only scratched the surface—he was still far from being able to play, not even able to talk a good game. In summary, the art of cricket fighting could be divided into three main parts: collecting, rearing, and fighting.

Collecting included both catching and buying. The season for catching crickets was autumn—starting from the day of the Beginning of Autumn, enthusiasts would frequent the Dongsi Archway, a gathering place for bird keepers in Beijing. Each autumn, birds would molt and needed live food for nutrition, so that area was always filled with live locusts and oil crickets for sale (the latter being a large species of cricket used as bird food). The cricket enthusiasts, by observing the size of these oil crickets, could tell how many times the crickets had molted and whether it was the best time to catch them.

Catching crickets required simple tools. First, a funnel-shaped wire cage with a handle was needed. Upon spotting a cricket, you’d cover it with the cage, blow a breath into it, and the cricket would crawl up the funnel. Then, using a cardboard tube sealed at one end, you’d fit the open end over the funnel’s tip; once the cricket crawled in, you’d seal the other end, trapping the cricket inside. The tube couldn’t be too wide or the cricket would turn around and escape; more particular folks used bamboo tubes of the right diameter.

You’d also need a small cage made from window screen, hung at your waist. The tubes went inside, and the cage was covered with cloth to prevent the crickets from being baked by the sun. On especially hot days, you’d throw in some grass to keep them cool. But you had to put each cricket in its own tube; otherwise, before you even made it home, they’d fight to the death and you’d be left with a cage of corpses.

In early autumn, crickets hadn’t yet dug their burrows and hid in the grass; you could find them by gently parting the grass with your foot as you walked. Once autumn deepened and the crickets started burrowing, you’d need a special tool called a dibble, with a wooden tip. When you heard a cricket’s song but it scurried into its hole as you approached, you’d use the dibble to drill near the entrance, shaking it slightly as you went. The startled cricket would dart out straight into your waiting wire cage.

Additionally, a flashlight was essential. Some crickets lived in places too complicated to catch by day. If they leapt into a wall or stone crevice, you’d never find them. So you’d identify their burrow during the day and return at dawn, when the cricket had gone home to sleep; a jab with the dibble and you’d nab it for sure.

Location was important too—you shouldn’t search too close to water, as crickets, wary of flooding, avoided living near it. Gullies and ravines were cricket havens, far more populous than flat ground. The Dongba River outside Dongzhimen and Sujiatuo outside Xizhimen were famous for producing crickets before Liberation—those from these places were large and of high quality, fetching higher prices than those from Shandong.

Catching crickets was tiring, so many couldn’t endure the hardship and chose to buy them instead. Where to buy? In earlier times, all of Beijing’s old city had cricket vendors, especially around Chaoyang Gate, Donghua Gate, Gulouwan, Xidan, Xisi Market, Caishikou, Liulichang, and Tianqiao. Usually, vendors spread a cloth on the roadside, piled high with bamboo tubes. The cheap ones cost just a few cents per tube—you got what you got; pricier ones you could inspect before buying. But during certain special periods, all this was suppressed and disappeared, so there was nowhere to buy even if you wanted to.

Because cricket fighting was once the pastime of Bannermen and the wealthy, it was mostly concentrated in Beijing and Tianjin. Crickets were thus categorized by origin: those from around Beijing and Tianjin were called “local crickets,” while those from elsewhere, especially Shandong, were “mountain crickets.”

Crickets were further classified by purpose: fighters and singers. Fighting crickets were chosen for size, big heads, and thick necks; singing crickets were judged solely by the beauty of their song.

Whether caught or bought, acquiring a cricket was just the beginning. If you couldn’t rear them properly, even the finest cricket would become mediocre. Thus, rearing was the most important, complex, and enjoyable aspect of cricket fighting.