H. A. Lamb

“ Harding had outgrown the fruits and punk sticks. He had come to wonder how the Chinaman worked so constantly over the ironing-board. He would have wondered more if he knew how many nights the laundryman spent over the roulette or stuss tables in the gambling joints of the lower Bowery.
But Fu Chen’s ancestors had passed their lives in pushing wheelbarrows equipped with wind sails and loaded with cotton bales sufficient to weigh down four mules; or in laboring at the oar of a river junk. They were tireless workers, and equally tireless gamblers. Both these characteristics were Fu Chen’s. ”

“ Harding’s glance sought and held the Chinaman’s. Fu Chen met his look calmly. A wiser man than Harding could not have read the thoughts behind the black eyes and wrinkled brow. It was Harding’s money, repeated Fu Chen. It had been his twenty dollars. Fu Chen knew that, explained in this way, his friend must take the money without further argument. ”

“ The word luck stands for a great reality with the superstitious Chinaman. No buck negro coaxing his dice was more a servant of the fickle god than Fu Chen.
Harding had bought it. T. & Q., he reasoned, was selling at six dollars and a few cents a share. Naturally, the road was bankrupt, and in about as bad a condition as could be imagined. Nothing more could very well happen to it, reasoned Harding. If it could not get worse, it might get better. Anyway, if the venture turned out badly, he would pay Fu Chen the hundred and ten out of his own pocket. ”

“ Harding turned back to his desk silently. The “big play” he had mentioned had been something of a joke with them. For years, with the patient expectancy of the Oriental gambler, Fu Chen had staked his money at the roulette table. Whenever he had twenty dollars gleaned from his laundry work, or more likely his fan-tan, the Chinaman would stake it for the big play—a hundred-to-one chance. If the little ball in the roulette wheel should fall into the pocket he had wagered on, he would be rich. ”

“ Fu Chen’s embarrassment deepened. The Chinaman had not expected to see an individual who, he thought, was plainly by reason of his stoutness and long-tailed coat, one of the upper-class mandarins.
“As nearly as I can gather,” explained Harding, “Mr. Fu Chen wants to know if it is a good time to sell T. & Q. He has quite a number of the shares, you know. A man at one of the gambling joints on the Bowery offered him cash for the stock—and more than the present quotations.” ”

“ His black eyes gleamed, and he moistened his lips as if in after relish of the supreme sensation that had been his.
“The ball him come my place. I put your twenty dol-lar on gamble table. They pay me two thousand dol-lar. It belong you, Mr. Bob. You have ’em.” ”

“ Fu Chen eyed the ticker with intent wonderment. It was a sort of magic, he thought—a machine that talked of itself. He waited impassively while Squires and Harding went to the news ticker and conferred.
“Congratulations, Fu Chen,” said the junior partner, coming back. “The news is out. Guess your friend saw it in the late editions last night. Oil has been struck along the right-of-way of the T. & Q. The railroad runs through one of the richest oil regions of the West. The stock will be worth double its present figure in a month.” ”

“ Harding had seen little of the Chinaman, once he became a bond salesman. Molly, because the laundry was neatly done and promptly, ceased to remark upon the evils of “that Chinaman’s place.” Then, on an evening when Harding was hurrying past the laundry to his home, Fu Chen had trotted out and stopped him. He asked Harding into his shop—into the back room.
“You invlest money?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” assented the bond salesman, surprised. “That’s my business; when I can find anybody with money to invest.” ”

“ Harding’s pulse quickened. “I’ve learned something about T. & Q., Harding. That stock has climbed all it’s going to. The oil boom is up to its peak. And the T. & Q. aren’t going to pay any dividends. The stock will break a dozen points when the bad news gets out. Better tell your client, Mr. Fu Chen, to sell out now while the selling’s good—”
“Thanks,” nodded Harding. “I will.”
He dictated a letter in one syllable words to Fu Chen and sent it to the laundry by messenger. An hour brought the Chinaman to the office with his stock certificates. ”

“ Harding was gladdened by this news. It left him, however, alone to meet the note that was due in two days.
He had figured it all out. He could get five hundred dollars together, neither more nor less. To borrow two thousand among his friends was out of the question. To ask it of McKestry, equally so. The investment house, in spite of personal friendship, could not afford to make good a bad debt of an employee.
The two days would pass, the bank would summon him for an accounting. They would confiscate his small stock of cash, and force the sale of the home in the suburbs. ”

“ White Jack laughed and caressed a pink chin.
“Take it away, Fu Chen. Dis is a gambling joint. It ain’t no charity joint. The gate’s good enough for me. I roll square—see? And I ain’t going to buck your luck.”
Stetly grinned. It would not pay the house to risk a week’s gate on the fall of dice in a Chinaman’s bowl. But a new-comer appeared at his side. Fu Chen recognized the man as one who had come in the touring-car. ”

“ Now McKestry & Squires were not accustomed to handling amounts under the thousands. The firm’s clients were among the notables of New York. Harding had wondered how Fu Chen had come to accumulate a hundred and ten dollars. Usually, he remembered, the laundryman squandered his earnings at the gaming table.
“I might,” he considered, “on my own account. What kind of an investment have you in mind?” ”

“ Maybe you get seventy dollars for it in a month. Don’t sell to any one, unless I tell you to. How many shares have you?”
“Shares?” Fu Chen thought. “Thirty.”
“I didn’t know you had so much. Well, you’ll be rich before long—have a lot of money.”
When Fu Chen had made his smiling exit and Squires had returned to his sanctum, Harding went back to his desk. Fu Chen had been lucky, he thought. Well, he was glad. He wished, though, that he might have had some of T. & Q. himself. He and Molly had just bought a house in the suburbs. ”

“ Harding started. Fu Chen explained that he had learned as much from the gossip of the maid who called for the laundry. Among Chinese the advent of a boy in the family is an event more important than marriage or death or anything else. Harding laughed. ”

“ Rob Harding looked up from his desk. It was a mahogany desk. Probably it had cost McKestry & Squires a round sum when it was bought. It stood with several others neatly ranged against the wall in the space allotted to the junior employees of the investment house. Harding’s papers were placed in orderly piles—correspondence and customers’ files. McKestry & Squires liked to see a well arranged desk.
“Who?” said Harding.
The office boy grinned. Harding was popular with him.
“It’s a Mr. Fu Chen—a Chinaman. But he don’t wear no pigtail. He says he knows you—”
“Oh, Fu Chen. Bring him right in.” ”

“ McKestry & Squires would not approve of his backing another man’s note. It was one of the rules of the firm. Perhaps that was because McKestry & Squires did not want trouble over money matters among their employees.
An investment house has to be jealous of its publicity, Harding thought indulgently. It was as much as his job was worth, if McKestry knew of the note. But the transaction would be closed in a few days. Meanwhile—
He tore up his mock balance sheet and went to seek his hat. He would lunch with Ed Wheeler. Perhaps he would tell him that Molly was going to have a son, or daughter. ”

“ Among the quotations for that day had been a number of low-priced railroad stocks. It was a year when rails were out of favor. Tampa and Quimberly common caught his eye. This particular stock was christened Tee and Que by the traders—T. & Q. on the tape.
“It may be lucky,” he observed humorously. “Tee and Que—a Chinese name. Eh, Fu Chen?” ”

“ It was doubly attractive, for it was both a railroad and oil stock.
A week after Fu Chen’s visit to McKestry & Squires, T. & Q. touched sixty. It was in great demand, and those who had the stock were keeping it.
“Your Chink friend has a good thing,” commented McKestry, who had heard about the visit, in passing. “Why not buy him out? He’d sell to you.”
“No thanks,” refused Harding. “It’s his investment. It’s good for a big rise. ”