“I can give you nothing,” said Fong Wu bluntly. “I do not keep—what you want.”
With a curse, Barrett was up again. “Oh, you don’t,” he screamed, leering frenziedly. “You yellow devil! You almond-eyed pigtail! But I know you do! And I must have it. Quick! quick!” He hung, clutching, on the edge of Fong Wu’s wide ironing-table, an ashen wreck. Fong Wu shook his head.
With a cry, Barrett came at him and seized his lean throat. “You damned highbinder!” he gasped. “You saddle-nosed monkey! You’ll get me what I want or I’ll give you away. Don’t I know why you’re up here in these woods, with your pretty clothes and your English talk. A-ha! You bet I do! You’re hiding, and you’re wanted;”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“the tongs would pay head-money for you. If you don’t give it to me, I’ll put every fiend in ’Frisco on your trail.”
Fong Wu had caught Barrett’s wrists. Now he cast him to one side. “Tongs!” he said with a shrug, as if they were beneath his notice. And “Fiends!” he repeated contemptuously, a taunt in his voice.
The white man had fallen prone and was grovelling weakly. “Oh, I won’t tell on you,” he wailed imploringly. “I won’t, I won’t, Fong Wu; I swear it on my honour.”
Fong Wu grunted and reached to a handy shelf. “I will make a bargain with you,” he said craftily; “first, you are to drink what I wish.”
“Anything! anything!” Barrett cried.
From a box of dry herbs, long untouched, the Chinese drew out a handful. There was no time for brewing. Outraged nature demanded instant relief. He dropped them into a bowl, covered them with water, and stirred swiftly. When the stems and leaves were broken up and well mixed, he strained a brown liquid from them and put it to the other’s lips.
“Drink,” he commanded, steadying the shaking head.
Barrett drank, unquestioning.