“My name is Helberson, yes; and this gentleman is Mr. Harper,” replied the former, reassured by the laugh. “But we are not physicians now; we are — well, hang it, old man, we are gamblers.”
And that was the truth.
“A very good profession — very good, indeed; and, by the way, I hope Sharper here paid over Jarette’s money like an honest stakeholder. A very good and honorable profession,” he repeated, thoughtfully, moving carelessly away; “but I stick to the old one. I am High Supreme Medical Officer of the Bloomingdale Asylum; it is my duty to cure the superintendent.”
The third circle
by Frank Norris[2]
Chinatown
There are more things in San Francisco’s Chinatown than are dreamed of in Heaven and earth. In reality there are three parts of Chinatown — the part the guides show you, the part the guides don’t show you, and the part that no one ever hears of. It is with the latter part that this story has to do. There are a good many stories that might be written about this third circle of Chinatown, but believe me, they never will be written — at any rate not until the “town” has been, as it were, drained off from the city, as one might drain a noisome swamp, and we shall be able to see the strange, dreadful life that wallows down there in the lowest ooze of the place — wallows and grovels there in the mud and in the dark. If you don’t think this is true, ask some of the Chinese detectives (the regular squad are not to be relied on), ask them to tell you the story of the Lee On Ting affair, or ask them what was done to old Wong Sam, who thought he could break up the trade in slave girls, or why Mr. Clarence Lowney (he was a clergyman from Minnesota who believed in direct methods) is now a “dangerous” inmate of the State Asylum — ask them to tell you why Matsokura, the Japanese dentist, went back to his home lacking a face — ask them to tell you why the murderers of Little Pete will never be found, and ask them to tell you about the little slave girl, Sing Yee, or — no, on the second thought, don’t ask for that story.
The tale I am to tell you now began some twenty years ago in a See Yup restaurant on Waverly Place — long since torn down — where it will end I do not know. I think it is still going on. It began when young Hillegas and Miss Ten Eyck (they were from the East, and engaged to be married) found their way into the restaurant of the Seventy Moons, late in the evening of a day in March. (It was the year after the downfall of Kearney and the discomfiture of the sandlotters.)
“What a dear, quaint, curious old place!” exclaimed Miss Ten Eyck.
She sat down on an ebony stool with its marble seat, and let her gloved hands fall into her lap, looking about her at the huge hanging lanterns, the gilded carven screens, the lacquer work, the inlay work, the colored glass, the dwarf oak trees growing in satsuma pots, the marquetry, the painted matting, the incense jars of brass, high as a man’s head, and all the grotesque gimcrackery of the Orient. The restaurant was deserted at that hour. Young Hillegas pulled up a stool opposite her and leaned his elbows on the table, pushing back his hat and fumbling for a cigarette.
“Might just as well be in China itself,” he commented.
“Might?” she retorted; “we are in China, Tom — a little bit of China dug out and transplanted here. Fancy all America and the Nineteenth Century just around the corner! Look! You can even see the Palace Hotel from the window. See out yonder, over the roof of that temple — the Ming Yen, isn’t it? — and I can actually make out Aunt Hattie’s rooms.”
“I say, Harry (Miss Ten Eyck’s first name was Harriett), let’s have some tea.”
“Tom, you’re a genius! Won’t it be fun! Of course we must have some tea. What a lark! And you can smoke if you want to.”
“This is the way one ought to see places,” said Hillegas, as he lit a cigarette; “just nose around by yourself and discover things. Now, the guides never brought us here.”
“No, they never did. I wonder why. Why, we just found it out by ourselves. It’s ours, isn’t it, Tom, dear, by right of discovery?”
At that moment Hillegas was sure that Miss Ten Eyck was quite the most beautiful girl he ever remembered to have seen. There was a daintiness about her — a certain chic trimness in her smart tailor-made gown, and the least perceptible tilt of her crisp hat that gave her the last charm. Pretty she certainly was — the fresh, vigorous, healthful prettiness only seen in certain types of unmixed American stock. All at once Hillegas reached across the table, and, taking her hand, kissed the little crumpled round of flesh that showed where her glove buttoned.
The China boy appeared to take their order, and while waiting for their tea, dried almonds, candied fruit and watermelon rinds, the pair wandered out upon the overhanging balcony and looked down into the darkening streets.
There’s that fortune-teller again,” observed Hillegas presently. “See — down there on the steps of the joss house?”
“Where? Oh, yes, I see.”
“Let’s have him up. Shall we? We’ll have him tell our fortunes while we’re waiting.”
Hillegas called and beckoned, and at last got the fellow up into the restaurant.
“Hoh! You’re no Chinaman,” said he, as the fortune-teller came into the circle of the lantern light. The other showed his brown teeth.
“Part Chinaman, part Kanaka.”
“Kanaka?”
“All same Honolulu. Sabe? Mother Kanaka lady — washum clothes for sailor peoples down Kaui way,” and he laughed as though it were a huge joke.
“Well, say, Jim,” said Hillegas; “we want you to tell our fortunes. You sabe? Tell the lady’s fortune. Who she going to marry, for instance.”
“No fortune — tattoo.”
“Tattoo?”
“Um. All same tattoo — three, four, seven, plenty lil birds on lady’s arm. Hey? You want tattoo?”
He drew a tattooing needle from his sleeve and motioned towards Miss Ten Eyck’s arm.
“Tattoo my arm? What an idea! But wouldn’t it be funny, Tom? Aunt Hattie’s sister came back from Honolulu with the prettiest little butterfly tattooed on her finger. I’ve half a mind to try. And it would be so awfully queer and original.”
“Let him do it on your finger, then. You never could wear evening dress if it was on your arm.”
“Of course. He can tattoo something as though it was a ring, and my marquise can hide it.”
The Kanaka-Chinaman drew a tiny fantastic-looking butterfly on a bit of paper with a blue pencil, licked the drawing a couple of times, and wrapped it about Miss Ten Eyck’s little finger — the little finger of her left hand. The removal of the wet paper left an imprint of the drawing. Then he mixed his ink in a small sea shell, dipped his needle, and in ten minutes had finished the tattooing of a grotesque little insect, as much butterfly as anything else.
“There,” said Hillegas, when the work was done and the fortune-teller gone his way; “there you are, and it will never come out. It won’t do for you now to plan a little burglary, or forge a little check, or slay a little baby for the coral round its neck, ’cause you can always be identified by that butterfly upon the little finger of your left hand.”
“I’m almost sorry now I had it done. Won’t it ever come out? Pshaw! Anyhow I think it’s very chic,” said Harriett Ten Eyck.
“I say, though!” exclaimed Hillegas, jumping up; “where’s our tea and cakes and things? It’s getting late. We can’t wait here all evening. I’ll go out and jolly that chap along.”
The Chinaman to whom he had given the order was not to be found on that floor of the restaurant. Hillegas descended the stairs to the kitchen. The place seemed empty of life. On the ground floor, however, where tea and raw silk were sold, Hillegas found a Chinaman figuring up accounts by means of little balls that slid to and fro upon rods. The Chinaman was a very gorgeous-looking chap in round horn spectacles and a costume that looked like a man’s nightgown, of quilted blue satin.