There passed between Yee Wing and his caller none of the elaborate greetings that mark the meeting of two equals. The strange Chinese gave the other a proud nod of the kind that is fit for a foreign devil, and, with no evasiveness and something of the bluntness that characterises the despised white, at once stated his errand.
“I come from the most worthy Bazar-man, to whom you stand in debt to the measure of twenty-five dollars,” he began. “I have to remind you that to-morrow is New Year’s day. And for you the sun does not rise unless the sum be paid.”
Yee Wing drew a startled breath. True, to-morrow would be New Year’s Day! How had it come so near without his knowing? It found him without what was due. His very “face”—that precious thing, appearance—was threatened!
“I am from the South of the Heavenly Empire,” he made haste to answer, catching, as it were, at a saving device. “I am a son of Tang, therefore. Now, with us, there is a custom——”
Without explaining further, he took hold of a wooden button upon his cotton blouse and pulled it loose. Then, with profound courtesy, he tendered it to the Collector of Monies.
The latter received it with a courtesy that was feigned, withdrawing a covert glance from the partly screened window. “A son of Tang,” he repeated. “There be rich men in the South. Now, perhaps your honoured father—” He paused inquiringly.
Yee Wing understood. In the land of the Son of Heaven, a father is held strictly responsible for the obligations of a son. But—the province of Kwangtung was far.
“My poor but excellent father was only a dealer in salt,” he said gravely. “His mound is upon a desolate stretch beside the Yang-tse.” To save any questions concerning other male members of the family,—who also might be held accountable—he added, “I alone survive to feed and clothe his spirit continuously.”
A baleful light shone in the slant, searching eyes, but the words of the Collector of Monies were gracious enough. “Filial piety,” he observed, “has first place among the virtues.” Then, with pompous deprecation, “My humble parent is but a kouang-fou in the Customs Service of Shanghai.”
Yee Wing lowered his own look in becoming deference. The son of a civil officer carries power.