Ching Shan was known throughout Pell Street for his stout wisdom--a reputation which he upheld by quoting esoterically and didactically from some hoary tome of learning, whenever asked a question, and then reinforcing his opinion by a yet lengthier quotation from another book. “Ng Ch’u,” he replied, “it has been reported in the Shu King that the sage Wu once spoke as follows: ‘I have heard that the good man, doing good, finds the day insufficient, and the night, and that the evil man, doing evil, also finds the day insufficient, and the night.’” He paused, looked around him, made sure that not only Ng Ch’u but also the rest of the company were listening to him attentively, and continued: “Yet, as to the evil man, and the good, has it not furthermore been said that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to the principles of his nature and the benevolent exercise of these principles when dealing with others?” “Even when dealing with evil men?” asked Ng Ch’u. “Decidedly, little brother.” “Ah--” smiled Ng Ch’u, “and the principle of my nature has always been to see that I have pork with my evening rice--to bargain close and tight--to know the worth of money--” “Money,” said Nag Hong Fah, the restaurant proprietor, “which is the greatest truth in the world--” “Money,” chimed in Yung Long, the wealthy wholesale grocer, “which is mastery and power and sway and shining achievement--” “Money,” said Ching Shan rather severely, since he had retired from active business affairs and was not worried by financial troubles, “which is good only when used by a purified desire and a righteous aim--” “What aim more righteous,” rejoined Ng Ch’u, “than peace and happiness and the evening rice--” And then, quite suddenly, a hush fell over the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity. Tea cups were held tremblingly in mid-air. Pipes dropped. Voices were stilled. For there, framed in the doorway, stood three figures, lean, tall, threatening; faces masked by black neckerchiefs; pistols held steadily in yellow hands. * * * * * “Oh--Buddha!” screamed Nag Hong Fah. “The hatchetmen--the hatchetmen--” “Silence, obese grandfather of a skillet!” said the tallest of the three. “Silence--or--” His voice was terse and metallic; his pistol described a significant half-circle and drew a bead on the restaurant proprietor’s stout chest. He took a step nearer into the room, while his two colleagues kept the company covered. “My friends,” he said, “I have not come here to harm anybody--except--” His eyes searched the smoke-laden room, and, as if drawn by a magnet, Ng Ch’u rose and waddled up to him. “Except to kill me?” he suggested meekly. “Rightly guessed, older brother,” smiled the other. “I regret--but what is life--eh?--and what is death? A slashing of throats! A cutting of necks! A jolly ripping of jugular veins!” He laughed behind his mask and drew Ng Ch’u toward him with a strong, clawlike hand.