Achmed Abdullah

“ I, too, know that we of the black-haired race are not permitted to enter this free land—unless we be students or great merchants or dignitaries of China or came here years ago—like you. I realize, furthermore, that babbling, leaky tongues can whisper cunning words to the immigration authorities—can spill the tea for many a worthy coolie who makes his living here on the strength of a forged passport. But—" smoothly, calmly, as Ng Ch'u tried to interrupt, "it so happened that the Old Buddha looked upon me with favor before she resigned her earthly dignities and ascended the dragon. ”

“ And yourself?"
"Nothing to complain of."
"And—" purred the Manchu; and, beneath the gentle, gliding accents, the other could sense the hard, unfaltering resolve of hatred emerging from the dim, wiped-over crepuscule of forty years into new, brazen, arrogant freedom—"the—Moon-beam?"
"Is the Moon-beam no longer."
"Her spirit has leaped the dragon gate—has rejoined the spirits of her worthy ancestors?"
"No, no." Ng Ch'u gave a little, lopsided laugh. "But the Moon-beam—alas!—has become Madame Full Moon. She has grown exceedingly fat. As fat as a peasant's round measure of butter. Ahee! ahoo! ”

“ One of these days, when a certain necessary thing shall have been pleasantly accomplished, I shall use the bowl myself, to eat therefrom my evening rice. There is no porcelain in the world," he went on rather academically, "like ancient Ming marked on the reverse side with the honorific seal of peace, longevity, and harmonious prosperity. It rings sweetly—like a lute made of glass—under the chop-sticks' delicate touch."
"Ho!" whispered Nag En Hin, the American-born son of Nag Hop Fat, the Pell Street soothsayer, who had recently graduated from high school. ”

“ Peter Van Dissel, had come in and bargained about that pale-blue Suen-tih Ming bowl with the red fish molded as handles.
"Seven thousand I asked," said Wen Pao. "Five thousand she offered—then five thousand five hundred—then six thousand. She will return to-morrow. Then she and I will talk business." He smiled. "The eye of desire fattens the price," he added.
"Ah—excellent!" replied Ng Ch'u. "Trade indeed revolves like a wheel. She can have the bowl for six thousand five hundred dollars. ”

“ I would order longevity boards of seasoned wood and cause the priests to pick out a charming retreat for my earthly remains. Too, if I were a fool, I might quote the Book of Ceremonies and Outer Observances to the tiger about to gore me. Ah—but I am not a fool—I am only a coward—I beg your pardon! ”

“ Ng Ch'u shivered. Should he turn back, make a run for his home?
And—what then?
To-morrow was another day. To-morrow the sun would shine golden and clear. True. But to-morrow the Manchu would still be the Manchu; and Ng Ch'u was sure of two things: that Yang Shen-hsiu would plot his speedy death, and that, even supposing he broke the unwritten law of Pell Street, it would be quite useless to go to the police of the red-haired devils and ask them for protection.
For could he, the merchant, accuse the other, the great Chinese dignitary sent to America on a diplomatic mission? And of what? ”

“ But he remembered that there was some urgent business matter he had to talk over with Ching Shan, the retired merchant who was his silent partner, and that at this hour he would be most likely to find him sipping a cup of hot wine in the back room of Nag Hong Fah's restaurant, which, for yellow men exclusively, was known euphoniously as the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity. ”

“ He looked at her from beneath heavy, opium-reddened eyelids.
"Moon-beam," he said, "once you could have been a Manchu's bride."
She gave a quaint, giggling, girlish, high-pitched little laugh.
"Once," she replied, "the ass went seeking for horns—and lost its ears." She patted his cheeks. "I am a coolie's fat old woman. Great One! An old coolie's fat, useless old woman—"
"Little Moon-beam," he whispered, "little, little Moon-beam—"
It was the voice of forty years ago, stammering, passionate, tender. He held her very close. ”

“ He was only a coolie, tho the receiving teller of the Hudson National Bank purred civilly over his deposit-slips.
And the other? A Manchu. An aristocrat. A sharp hatchet of a man who cleaved his way through life. Why, even Yang Shen-hsiu's back, beneath the prim and decorous folds of the Prince Albert, gave an impression of steely, ruthless efficiency—the efficiency of a hawk's claw and a snake's fang.
"Assuredly," Ng Ch'u said to himself, as he turned east down Forty-second Street, "if I were a fool, I would now write to China and complete my funeral arrangements. ”