"
Ma Lorenzo, who was half Portuguese, replied in her peculiar
accent:
"This no time to come waking me up out of bed!"
But Harley, brushing past her, was already inside the stuffy
little room, and I hastened to follow.
"Kwen Lung!" shouted my friend loudly. "Where are you? Brought
a friend to see you."
"Kwen Lung no hab," came the complaining tones of Ma Lorenzo from
behind us.
It was curious to note how long association with the Chinese had
resulted in her catching the infection of that pidgin-English
which is a sort of esperanto in all Asiatic quarters.
"Eh!" cried my friend, pushing open a door on the right of the
passage and stumbling down three worn steps into a very evil-
smelling room. "Where is he?"
"Go play fan-tan. Not come back."
Ma Lorenzo, having relocked the street door, had rejoined us, and
as I followed my friend down into the dim and uninviting
apartment she stood at the top of the steps, hands on hips,
regarding us.
The place, which was quite palpably an opium den, must have
disappointed anyone familiar with the more ornate houses of
Chinese vice in San Francisco and elsewhere. The bare floor was
not particularly clean, and the few decorations which the room
boasted were garishly European for the most part.
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