The creature darted past him, blew out one candle, and
thrust the other behind a bottle, so that he stood in a wedge of shadow.
"Eng-lish speak I ver' badt," he whispered; and then with something
between gasp and chuckle, "but der _pak-wa_ goot, no? When der live
dependt, zo can mann--" He caught his breath, and trembled in a
strong seizure.
"Good?" whispered Heywood, staring. "Why, man, it's wonderful! You
_are_ a coolie"--Wutzler's conical wicker-hat ducked as from a blow. "I
beg your pardon. I mean, you're--"
The shrunken figure pulled itself together.
"You are right," he whispered, in the vernacular. "To-night I am a
coolie--all but the eyes. Therefore this hat."
Heywood stepped back to the door, and popped his head out. The dim hall
was empty.
"Go on," he said, returning. "What is your news?"
"Riots. They are coming. We are all marked for massacre. All day I ran
about the town, finding out. The trial of Chok Chung, your--_our_
Christian merchant--I saw him 'cross the hall.' They kept asking, 'Do
you follow the foreign dogs and goats?' But he would only answer, 'I
follow the Lord Jesus.
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