Part 37 (1/2)

”Let me go;--you--d.a.m.ned--c.h.i.n.k!”

She muttered the words under her breath.

He heard her.

He thought of the drunkard and he thought of her.

Suddenly he felt quite furious; stilly, sinisterly furious.

”I'm 'Melican.”

He said it stolidly. His narrow, black eyes were unwavering on her.

She began to cry.

”Let me go,” she whimpered. ”I ain't done nothing to you. I couldn't have got on to your being--a--c.h.i.n.k.”

”What diffelence does that make?” He asked. And then he reiterated with careful precision: ”I tell you I'm a 'Melican.”

Her words came to him in a gurgle of terror.

”I hate you. I hate all of your yellow faces--and them eyes! I hate them horrid, nasty--eyes!”

He bent his head until his face almost touched hers. His strong, angry fingers held her firmly by either arm.

”It is not pletty, this face?”

She struggled, inane with fear. She fought, trying to free herself, to tear away from the vise-like grip of those awful hands; swaying like a tortured, trapped creature against his strength. She could feel the intensity, the calm scrutiny of his long, narrow eyes upon her.

Suddenly something in his brain snapped.

He pushed her roughly from him.

He saw her fall to the pavement; he saw her head strike the curb.

He stood there watching her as she lay, outlined by the light colored material of her dress against the wet blackness of the asphalt.

”What diffelence does it make if I am a Chinaman?”

He asked it as he bent over her. But she did not answer. The question went out into the heavy stillness, hanging there to be echoed deafeningly by a thousand silent tongues.

Something in the sudden quiet of the way she lay filled him with a tranquil joy. He knelt beside her, He reached his hand over her heart.

He got up slowly, deliberately.

He moved silently away, going with that padded, sinuous motion, so distinctly Chinese.

With cunning stealth he went back the way he had come, treading lightly; cautiously seeking the darkest shadows.