Joseph Bartholdi Michael, the Third, enters late. He says he is tired from bricklaying and slumps into the most conspicuous chair like a second rate actor’s idea of a martyr to patriotism. Michael, the Third, will not play Sumatra or any other chess. He will not bet on any other man’s chess playing. He glares at the merry Jim, or in his general direction. He stalks around, like a stork at a dinner of foxes. The crowd thins out, and at length the two men are left with Mara, because J. B. Michael, the Third, has not sense enough to go. She has given Jim Kopensky every sign and Michael, the Third, no signs at all. She wants this exquisite scion of the Blacksmith clan to play the game, and take his chance. But he is more at ease in his patriotic overalls, laying bricks to hurry up the final official opening of the Fair, and the Street of Past History. So she helps Kopensky to back Michael to the door, which is done by a simple process of walking toward him with a certain air. He is overwhelmed at Jim’s assurance and vital power. But Jim is one of those whom love makes a man for an hour in a lifetime. As I open the door for the exquisite Michael, I divine Mara’s pity for him. But what can a woman do? No proud Singaporian can have mercy on an unmagnetic fool. It is not a conspiracy against the loser. It is an elemental contest. This red oriental heart is for the man who wins this doorstep fight. Religion and destiny wait. And J. B. Michael, the Third, of his own weakness goes out the door in defeat. But Mara, having, without an uttered word, chosen this James Kopensky for what she can make of him, turns at once to the cocaine Buddha around the corner of the hall. Religion comes next. The triumphant Jim follows her thought. He takes a candle from the table. He holds it in front of the august image, that seems to him more like green air than glass. He bows, the complete devotee before that ironical god whose doctrines are absurd, even to me, though I am for a season in a Malay mind. But what doctrines are not absurd to that soul that refuses to receive them? Jim blows out the candle, and with it his former life, and, in intention, every western desire, and all for the glory of the holy islands of southeast Asia. He relights the candle at a taller one that is burning in front of the image. Just then a telegram comes. Later I am reproved for letting the boy make the turn in the hall that enables him to see Crawling Jim light the candle. It is a real telegram, that has to do with an out-of-town lecture to be given by the Man from Singapore, on “The Republic of Letters.” And so the lord of the house comes in for it, reads it, and signs. The boy is not hustled to the door. He lingers. Our little ceremony is quite interrupted.