JO FINDS THAT HE IS SOME ONE ELSE
When, late at night, Chinese Jo reached New York and alighted from his train in the Grand Central Station he was bewildered and almost frightened by his surroundings. He found himself in a vast edifice occupied by many long trains of cars, some standing still, either receiving or discharging passengers, and others in motion, drawn or pushed by hoarsely puffing locomotives. Between every two trains was a narrow platform extending the whole length of the great station, and most of these were crowded with outgoing or incoming passengers, all in a hurry, and each too intent upon his own affairs to pay attention to those of his neighbors. Among them moved red-capped porters and blue-clad railway officials, too mindful of their own importance to condescend to answer the low-voiced questions of an insignificant "Chinaman."
As Jo drifted with the tide of one of these human streams, his eyes searched anxiously every face within his range of vision with the hope of discovering Mr. Wang. But no such good-fortune was in store for him, and finally he reached the street without having found his friend. He had asked several of the uniformed officials if they had seen a Chinese gentleman anywhere about the station, but some of them had only laughed without answering, while others had paid no attention to him. Outside the station, however, and standing irresolute on the sidewalk, Jo was beset by plenty of persons anxious to serve him. Drivers of carriages, cabs, and baggage wagons shouted at him and solicited his patronage. Agents of express companies wanted to take charge of his luggage, ragged street urchins struggled for possession of his hand-bag, while hotel-runners besieged him with cards of their respective houses.
"But I only want to go to the Blevoort Hotel," he finally managed to explain, "and not anywhere else."
"Take you to the Brevoort for five dollars," shouted a hack-driver, waving a whip in the lad's face and at the same time reaching for his hand-bag.
"I am going to the Brevoort House, and will show you the way if you like," said some one close behind Jo, as he was attempting to explain that he had not five dollars to expend on carriage-hire.
Turning, our lad saw a man, evidently, from the bag that he carried, a traveller like himself, and, greatly relieved to find some one willing to aid him in this time of trouble, he gratefully accepted the stranger's offer of guidance.
"All right, then, come along," said the man. "No, we don't want no hack. Street-cars are good enough for us."
With this he waved aside the clamorous throng of drivers, and led the way to a car bound down-town. As they rode, the stranger, while admitting that he was not a resident of New York, so impressed our lad with his knowledge of the great city, and of the manifold pitfalls that it held for the unwary, that he inwardly congratulated himself upon having met so willing a guide, who at the same time was so competent to direct his steps.
The car took them within one block of their destination, and when Jo read the name "Brevoort" over the doorway of the hotel he believed his troubles to be ended, for surely here he would find his friend, or at least learn of his whereabouts.
"Is there a gentleman by the name of Wang stopping here?" he inquired of a sprucely attired clerk at the desk.
"Not if we know it," was the reply, accompanied by a supercilious stare.
"But I received a telegram only a few hours ago telling me to meet him here."
"Can't help that. If he is here it's without my knowledge, and you'll have to find him as best you can."
"Then I will take a room for the night and wait till he comes," said poor Jo, desperately. "This is the only address he gave, and so he is sure to look here for me sooner or later."
"Haven't a vacant room in the house," answered the clerk, shortly; "and if you think this hotel is a Chinese joint you're mightily mistaken."
"Let's get out of here," said Jo's friendly guide. "That's outrageous; and if this place isn't good enough for you it isn't good enough for me either."
Here, unobserved by our lad, the speaker winked at the clerk, who winked back understandingly. "Come with me," added the man. "I'll show you a decent place, where we can spend the night, and to-morrow I'll help you hunt your friend."
As Jo knew not what else to do, he for a second time gratefully accepted the offer of this stranger, and followed him out through the inhospitable doorway he had so hopefully entered a few minutes before. Again boarding a street-car, they were carried far down-town, and finally reached a small hotel, in which they secured a room containing two beds.
There they spent the remainder of the night and had breakfast the next morning. By this time Jo had determined to make one more effort to find Mr. Wang at the Brevoort House, and, if it failed, to return at once to Hatton. He still had money with him to pay his fare, but not enough to keep him much longer at a New York hotel. During breakfast, which he and his newly formed acquaintance ate together, he confided this plan to the latter, who gave it his hearty approval.
"Best thing you can do," he said. "New York is no place for a stranger, more especial a foreigner who is not used to American ways. There's only one thing, though. While we're down-town we might as well visit the office of the police commissioners, and find out what they know about your friend. They keep track of all foreigners arriving in the city, and are sure to have full information concerning any one so distinguished as your Mr. Wang. It's only about a couple of blocks away, and you can leave your bag here to pick up as you come back."
Jo agreed to this proposal; and, filled with a new hope, willingly accompanied his friendly guide. They walked much farther than two blocks, but our lad was so fascinated by the novel sights about him that he took no note of the distance traversed. Finally they entered a massive stone building, in which an elevator speedily lifted them several stories above the street level. Jo caught a glimpse of the word "Commissioner," printed in letters of gold over a doorway, as he was ushered into an anteroom, the entrance to which was guarded by an officer. His acquaintance seemed to know this man, for he nodded to him as they passed in. Then he said to Jo:
"You sit here and wait a few minutes, while I go and see if the commissioner can give us a hearing."
With this he turned away and disappeared through a second doorway at the other end of the room.
So Jo waited and waited with the unquestioning patience of his race until more than an hour had passed, while many persons went in and out without paying him the slightest attention. At length he began to grow uneasy; and, walking over to the officer who guarded the door, he asked:
"Is the commissioner very busy this morning?"
"Rather," was the laconic answer.
"Then, perhaps, I had better not wait any longer."
"Oh, I guess you had," was the reply, accompanied by a curious scrutiny of the young Chinese.
"But it may be that he won't have time to attend to my affair."
"He'll attend to you fast enough when the time comes. Never you fear."
Reassured, but at the same time somewhat perplexed by these answers, Jo returned to his seat and waited another hour. Then, determined to remain no longer, he walked to the door with the intention of going back to the hotel and carrying out his original plan.
"What do you want now?" inquired the officer on guard.
"I am not going to wait any longer," replied Jo.
"Oh, you're not going to wait any longer, aren't you? Reckon we'll see about that, too. Just you stroll back to where the deputy marshal left you, and stay there till you're ordered to move, or I'll make things lively for you. Do you hear me, Chink? Well, then, get a move on."
Bewildered and frightened by the officer's fierce aspect, Jo did as he was bidden, and again resumed his seat. He had hardly taken it, when the door through which his acquaintance had disappeared was flung open and another officer called out, "Joseph Lee!" a summons that our lad obeyed with alacrity.
He was ushered into a comfortably furnished room, containing a number of men, and was conducted to the presence of one who sat behind a desk. Near at hand stood his acquaintance of the night before.
"Is this your man, deputy?" asked the person behind the desk.
"Yes, sir; he is," replied Jo's acquaintance, who was a deputy United States marshal, engaged in searching out illegal Chinese residents of the Eastern District.
"What is your name?" asked the man behind the desk, now turning to Jo.
"Joseph Lee," was the reply.
"Native of China?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you been in this country?"
"About eight months."
"Where?"
"Hatton."
"What have you been doing there?"
"Studying."
"Never lived in S——?"
"No, sir; but—"
"Never mind your buts. Haven't you been employed in Charley Wing's laundry in S——?"
"Certainly not. I am a student, and—"
"This isn't your picture, then?" said the United States commissioner, at the same time holding out an enlarged photograph of a scene in a Chinese laundry.
Jo took it, and to his amazement recognized himself, prominently in the foreground, and engaged in ironing as though that were his trade.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "This seems to be a picture of me; but—"
"That will do," interrupted the commissioner sharply. "Now let me see your certificate."
Jo had a certificate of identity, to which was attached a photograph of himself as he had looked when about to leave Hong-Kong. This certificate had been furnished by an American consul-general in China; and, as he had been warned always to keep it about his person, he now was able promptly to produce it.
"Um, um," muttered the commissioner, as he glanced over the paper. Then aloud he added: "This appears to be a certificate of identity issued to one Li Tsin Su, student, unable to speak English, and so forth. You speak English fluently, declare your name to be Joseph Lee, and admit the correctness of this picture of yourself at work in a Chinese laundry, a photograph, by-the-way, that does not in the least resemble the one attached to this certificate. Thus, your case seems to prove itself beyond need of further investigation, for you don't appear to be anywhere near as sharp in matters of deception as most of your tricky countrymen. I rather think you won't find America a congenial sphere for your future studies. Marshal, remove the prisoner, and retain him in custody until such time as the next personally conducted excursion is ready to start."
"This is an outrage!" protested poor Jo, struggling furiously in the viselike grip of the man who had taken him in charge, "and I shall appeal—"
"Shut up!" growled the officer, "and come along quiet, or you'll only make a bad matter worse."
With this he hustled his indignant but helpless prisoner from the room at so breathless a pace that he could utter no further word of protest.
A half-hour later saw our unfortunate lad stripped of everything found in his pockets and lodged in one of the city prisons, in company with several of his countrymen, all of the coolie class, who were awaiting orders from Washington for their deportation to China in accordance with the provisions of the Chinese Exclusion Act of the United States.