“My friend,” he replied, “I, too, am familiar with the inexplicable laws of these foreign barbarians which put the yellow man even beneath the black in human worth and civic respect. 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. I, the very undeserving one, have been showered with exquisite honors. Very recently I was sent to America in an official capacity. Thus--as to the Chinese exclusion law, also as to babbling, leaky tongues that whisper here and there--do not trouble, Ng Ch’u. Your tongue might catch cold--and would not that cause your honorable teeth to shrivel?” He paused, stared at the other, then--and a tremor ran over his hawkish features, as a ripple is seen upon a stagnant pool even before the wind of storm strikes it--went on in a voice that was low and passionless, yet pregnant with stony, enormous resolve, “Coolie! I have never forgotten the Moon-beam. I have never forgotten that once the thought of her played charming cadences on the lute of my youthful soul. I have never forgotten that once her image was the painted pleasure-boat that floated gently on the waters of my dream-ruffled sleep. I--ah--I have never forgotten that once the Moon-beam was a yellow, silken rose, and that a coolie brushed the bloom from her petals with his objectionable lips. No--I have never forgotten.” “And--” asked Ng Ch’u, a little diffident, but quite matter-of-fact, like a bazar trader who is not yet sure of the size of his customer’s purse and must therefore bargain circumspectly--“is there no way to--make you forget?” “Assuredly there is a way,” the Manchu laughed. “Oh--?” “What sayeth the Li-Ki--? ‘Do not try to fathom what has not yet arrived! Do not climb the tree if you wish to catch fish!’” And Yang Shen-hsiu went on his way, while Ng Ch’u looked after him with a rather comical expression of devout concentration of his round face, clasping and unclasping his short, pudgy fingers, pursing his lips, and emitting a sort of melancholy whistle. He was a coward, and very much afraid. 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.