His pigtail had been severed some three inches from the root!
"You gotchee my pigtail," he explained; "me callee get it--thank
you."
"Thank you," I said grimly. "But I must ask you to establish
your claim rather more firmly."
"Yessir," agreed the Chinaman.
And thereupon in tolerable pidgin English he unfolded his tale.
He proclaimed his name to be Hi Wing Ho, and his profession that
of a sailor, or so I understood him. While ashore at Suez he had
become embroiled with some drunken seamen: knives had been drawn,
and in the scuffle by some strange accident his pigtail had been
severed. He had escaped from the conflict, badly frightened, and
had run a great distance before he realized his loss. Since
Southern Chinamen of his particular Tong hold their pigtails in
the highest regard, he had instituted inquiries as soon as
possible, and had presently learned from a Chinese member of the
crew of the S.S. Jupiter that the precious queue had fallen
into the hands of a fireman on that vessel. He (Hi Wing Ho) had
shipped on the first available steamer bound for England, having
in the meanwhile communicated with his friend on the Jupiter
respecting the recovery of the pigtail.
"What was the name of your friend on the Jupiter?"
"Him Li Ping--yessir!"--without the least hesitation or hurry.
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