The name of Chew Chee was like magic on them. They became silent and listened closely to my talk. I was tied up so that I couldn’t reach the vest pocket the letter was in, but I managed to touch it with a finger. “You look my pocket,” I cried frantically to the old man. He came over to where I sat on the box and gingerly put his fingers into the pocket, bringing out the letter. By the lamplight he studied it long and carefully. Others then read it, and the powwowing started again, while I sat listening for the fatal “luc zhe,” and picturing myself back in the jail I had so lately escaped from. The boss now got a box and sat opposite me with the letter in his hand and a thoughtful, puzzled look on his leathery, wrinkled old face. The other Chinamen stood behind him, silent again. I saw I was going to be tried or examined, and hoping for an out, I began to figure some kind of a defense. His accusing words bit into me like an acid. They were laden with scorn. I turned hot with shame and confusion. Tapping the letter with a long, bony finger, he said: “Him letter talk you good man. What for, you good man?” These were short, plain words and called for a plain answer. No use trying to deceive this old man after trying to rob him. No use putting up a crying talk for mercy. I could see he scorned me as a robber, a thief in the night, and made up my mind not to bring more contempt upon myself by pleading weakly and in fear. I answered him as I imagined he would have answered me if by any chance our positions had been reversed. “Maybe me good man,” I said. “Maybe bad man, I no know. Long time policeman make me plenty trouble. Long time I stop jail house. Then I come Vancouver. No more money, no more eat. I look see your money, I come your house steal your money. No can do; you catch me. You send me jail house, long time me no come home. More better you kill me now. Policeman talk me bad man; plenty Chinaman talk me good man. Maybe good man, maybe bad man; I no know.” I spoke firmly, looking him in the eyes frankly, and finished my argument for the defense with as much force and feeling as any barrister ever put into a plea for a client’s life. His face was blank as a board. His little brownish-black eyes were fastened on mine, but I saw no hope in them. I couldn’t even tell whether he had understood what I said. After studying me for a long time he turned and said something to one of his boys. The boy went into the bunk room and came back with a heavy meat cleaver that the Chinese use to chop pork and fowl. Another order and I was lifted, box and all, out of the corner and placed in the middle of the room. The China boy with the cleaver stepped behind me.