"I'm not so sure of that," said Adrian thoughtfully. "D'ye know that Irish drayman, Dennis Kearney?" "Y-e-s ... the one who used to be a sailor?" "That's the man. He's clever; knows men like a book.... Has power and a knack for words. He calls our Legislature 'The Honorable Bilks.' Wants to start a Workingmen's Party. And he'll do it, too, or I'm mistaken. His motto is 'The Chinese Must Go!'" "By Harry! There's a story for the paper," said Francisco. "I must see the fellow." Robert Windham and Po Lun were out for a morning promenade. They often walked together of a Sunday. Robert, though he was now twenty-six, still retained his childhood friendship for the Chinese servitor; found him an agreeable, often-times a sage companion. Urged by Alice, whose ambitious love included all within her ken, Po Lun attended night school; he could read and write English passably, though the letter "r" still foiled his Oriental tongue. Today they were out to have a look at the new city hall. On a sand lot opposite several hundred men had gathered, pressing round a figure mounted on a barrel. The orator gesticulated violently. Now and then there were cheers. A brandishing of fists and canes. Po Lun halted in sudden alarm. "Plitty soon they get excited. They don't like Chinese. I think maybe best we go back." But already Po's "pig-tail" had attracted attention. The speaker pointed to him. "There's one of them Heathen Chinese," he cried shrilly. "The dirty yaller boys what's takin' bread out of our mouths. Down with them, I say. Make this a white man's country." An ominous growl came from the crowd. Several rough-looking fellows started toward Robert and Po Lun. The latter was for taking to his heels, but Robert stood his ground. "What do you fellows want?" They paused, abashed by his intrepid manner. "No offense, young man. We ain't after you. It's that Yaller Heathen.... The kind that robs us of a chance to live." "Po Lun has never robbed anyone of a chance to live. He's our cook ... and my friend. You leave him alone." "He sends all his money back to China," sneered another coming closer, brandishing a stick. "A fine American, ain't he?" "A better one than you," said Robert hotly. Anger got the better of his judgment and he snatched the stick out of the fellow's hand, broke it, threw it to the ground. Savagely they fell upon him. He went down, stunned by a blow on the head, a sense of crushing weight that overwhelmed his strength. He was vaguely conscious of a tirade of strange words, of an arm at the end of which was a meat cleaver, lashing about. The vindictive bark of a pistol. Shouts, feet running. A blue-coated form. A vehicle with champing horses that stood by. "Are you hurt very bad, young feller?" Robert moved his arms and legs. They appeared intact. He rose, stiffly. "Where's Po Lun?" "In the wagon." Robert, turning, observed an ambulance. "Not--dead?"