The Spike: or, Victoria University College Review, June 1923

II

II.

When the next Tong meeting of the society, that exists as expert murderers in every Chinese community, gathered in Yat Foo's couch-littered reception room, it was to a very happy and opium-comforted evening. High-binders command large payments, and the Tong was rich and powerful, so that there was liberal provision for each man's personal comfort both of body and soul. Around the room, al the head of each silk-covered couch, stood little brass trays of white pellets—the opium of the Asiatic. Every now and then a grave and dignified oriental would refill his long pipe from a tray and would return to his smoke-clouded repose. Every now and again a monosyllabic answer would be tossed through the murky atmosphere to a grunted question. Except for this there was silence.

Presently Yat Foo, chief among San Francisco high-binders both by wealth and ability, spoke from his cushioned couch: "So perish all that insult our Tong!" he proclaimed with a faint ring of exultation in hissing-song voice. "And the people cower while a Canton Mandarin becomes like the mud on the winter street." And at the thought he wrinkled his nose, which is the supreme expression of Chinese disgust,

"He fought well, O Yat Foo," grunted an ivory-faced dreamer, whose reputation was that of the fiercest among all the Tong.

"True, Sing Yet "Tung," replied the other."And his rats with him took many to their Fathers. But so died the dog"—here he wrinkled his nose again—"and so die all who oppose the Tong!"

"But what of Foi Chee's daughter, Sing Yet Fung? She has loved a white man"—for a moment his voice changed into a hiss —"and We have hem paid. To-night in the Street of the Crimson Poppies—" .... So was murder bought and sold for a bag of Foi Chee's silver dollars.

As the night grew on the Ton gradually disbanded, and Yat Foo retired to his couch for the night.

In the night he awoke to feel a knee on his chest and a cushion tight pressed on his mouth. After a few intense moments he realised the futility of the struggle and lay quiet, to hear a softly-modulated voice revile him in fluent Cantonese. Something like a hair was laid upon his throat, and he waited for death.

It was not so long in coming as it had been to Sun Fang. The pincers were missing. So too was the cord, the brazier, and the blunt horse hair that is used to explore each de-nailed finger and toe. But even by aid of the knife alone a Chinaman can exact a vengeance. Yat Foo was not a pretty sight when the intruder lifted him to the window and lowered him, wrapped in his own couch cover, to the ground outside.

Detective Willis was on the track of a vanishing black-caped knifer who had left, under the carven shadow of a balcony in the street of the Crimson Poppies, a Quarter policeman lying dead beside the body of Foi Chee's daughter. As he turned the abrupt corner into the Market Place he stopped in his tracks.

"Hold on, Mike!" he whispered to the leading patrol-man. "Something's up over there."

A dark figure was bending over a crumpled heap on the Market Place, and a silver arc gleamed in the light of the moon.

"Mother of Mercies! He's chopping him up!" shouted Mike, rushing forward as the full import of the scene dawned upon him. Surprising feature of a Chinese assassin, the native offered no resistance, but held up his wrists quietly for the steel hand-cuffs. The murderer secured, the others turned to view his handiwork.

What Mike had said was only too true. The headless trunk of Yat Foo, crowned by dismembered arms and legs, lay in a slippery ooze on the ground, and on the stone bench of the sweet-seller there lay for a second time a grinning, mutilated head.

There was no doubt from the beginning as to the Court's verdict. The Missionary indeed procured the best lawyer in San Francisco, but in the face of the facts and Kling Yen's appalling frankness nothing could be done. The Missionary prayed, his wife wept, and Kling Yen smiled.

Two days before the execution the Missionary made a final visit to the prison. All through the gloomy period that followed the sentence he had been bringing small delicacies to the condemned cell, but this was to be the last meeting of the two in this life. His tender heart would not permit him to wait the dread, dread night with his dearly loved convert.

"You know, dear," he had said to his wife as he quitted the neat little bungalow over the water, "I scarcely like to intrude on his communings. I am quite sure that he talks with God when he his and thinks, and thinks, and doesn't even notice my presence. It is all surely a terrible mistake." And his wife, weeping to think of her Appointed Preacher under sentence of death, agreed that it must be a terrible, terrible mistake.

When the Missionary entered the cell, Kling Yen was speaking in his native language to an old Chinese pedlar, who, pack deposited on the stone floor, spoke of nothing but poverty and misery. The warders in searching for anything banned to the prisoners, had left it lying open, displaying a scanty collection of low-grade Chinese candy and fruits. The old man himself resembled his pack in that his clothes were obviously few and well-worn, and his face, grimed by the dusty streets, was that of a pedlar born.

But Kling Yen in beseeching voice addressed this stranger as if a prince.

"And you have purchased with the money of the Lord Ken Fn Ling, who is the Staff and the Life of all Canton, a silver-covered coffin with carved ivory handles.?" he asked, his Chinese face filled as far as it might be with that expression we Europeans call awe.

The old man shook his head gravely in assent.

The Missionary, hearing the eager note in the supplication, thought, poor man, that "the Seed" was being sown "to such as will receive it."

"Is he too a kneeler at the Footstool?" he asked, laying a gentle hand on the youth's shoulder.

Kling Yen looked up angrily to discover the invader of his privacy. On recognising the Missionary his anger overcame him.

"You go and chase yourself to hell!" he snarled, and turning to the yellow emissary of his Canton Lord, he eagerly continued his humble petit ion.

The Sacred Light of China will burn joss-sticks for me in the Temple of the Dragon's teeth?" he begged.

Again the old man nodded assent.

An indescribable expression of peace flooded Kling Yen's flat features. His was to be the burial for which each Chinese peasant prays and for which each emigrant hoards his scanty gold. Even to the joss-sticks would it be complete.

In turning he saw the Missionary still lingering, not able to realise the full import of what he had heard. Kling Yen wrinkled his nose.

"You damn Christian, go to the devil!" he said in his best University English. "You make me sick."

Outside the grey, granite walls of the prison the Missionary confided to his Comforter his shattered hopes and dreams, and received by reason of that very faith the consolation that is beyond all price. Within his plastered cell Kling Yen spent the fading hours before a stick of incense left to him by his visitor. The God of the Missionary is a jealous God, and asks faith full and undivided—but so do the Ashes of the Chinese Fathers.

S.E.B.