"Accordin' to my observation," remarked Noah, "a heathen Chinese has about all the virtues that a Christian ought to have, but ain't regularly got. "The other mornin' after I'd been to the Red Owl the night before, I felt like I needed a cup of coffee. I went round to a Chink that I'd never met but two or three times, and says, 'John, I'm broke, will you lend me a hundred dollars?' "That blasted Chink never batted an eye, never asked me if I owned any personal property subject to mortgage, nor if I could get three good men to go on my note. He just says, 'Surlee, Misty Foster,' and dived down in a greasy old drawer and began to count out greenbacks. 'Here,' I says, 'if you are that much of a Christian, I ain't an all-fired heathen myself. Give me a dime and keep the change.'" Bob smiled appreciatively. "I've seen things like that happen more than once. And it is not because they are simple and ignorant either." "You know," pursued Noah Ezekiel, "if I's Karniggy, I'd send a lot of 'em out as missionaries." They were at Ah Sing's ranch. The three-hundred-acre field was level as a table, broken deep, thoroughly disked, and listed ready to water. The Chinaman, without any money or the slightest assurance he could get any for his planting, had worked all winter preparing the fields. Ah Sing stood in front of his weed-and-pole shack waiting with that stoical anxiety which never betrays itself by hurry or nervousness. If the man of money came and saw fit to lend, "vellee well--if not, doee best I can." "You go out and take a look at the field," Bob directed Noah, "see if there is any marsh grass or alfalfa roots, and look over his water ditches while I talk to the Chinaman." "Good morning, Ah Sing," he said, extending his hand. "Good morning, Misty Rogee." The Chinaman smiled and gave the visitor a friendly handshake. He was of medium height, had a well-shaped head and dignified bearing, and eyes that met yours straight. He looked about forty, but one never knows the age of a Chinaman. "Nice farm, Ah Sing," Bob nodded approvingly at the well-plowed fields. "He do vellee well." The Chinaman was pleased. "And you have no money to make a crop?" Bob asked. "No money," Ah Sing said, stoically. "I heard last fall you had made a good deal of money raising cotton over here," suggested Bob. "Me make some," admitted Ah Sing. "Workee vellee hard many year--make maybe eighteen--twentee thousan'." "What became of it, Ah Sing? Don't gamble, do you?" The Chinaman shook his head emphatically, "Me no gamble. Gamble--nobody trust. Me pick cotton for Misty Jenkins." Bob was interested in that. He knew that after raising Jenkins' crop Ah Sing had taken the contract to pick it. Bob had heard other things but not from the Chinaman. "Didn't you make some money on that, too?" "No money." "Why not?" Bob spoke quickly. "Tell me about it, Ah Sing." The Chinaman sighed again and the long, long look came into his patient oriental eyes.