“I notice you have plenty of room here; so I think perhaps you like to rent this place to me to store my goods.” He darted one of his capacious sleeves inside his blouse and drew forth a card, which he handed to Ben.
“I give you my card.”
Ben glanced at the card. “Ng Quong Lee, Fruitpacker; Factory, 792 Jackson Street,” it read.
“I shall be here for only a short time,” Ben said. “The lease of this building expires in a few months. Besides, you couldn’t store anything here; there are too many holes in the walls and roofs.”
“O, that wouldn’t matter,—my goods are canned. My factory too crowded at this time of year. Fruit season now, you know. For a few months I like to rent another place.”
“I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you,” Ben said, turning away, “but I need all the place myself.”
“I give you thirty dollars a month,” the Chinese said, with a shrewd glance.
This offer increased Ben’s suspicion, and he flatly refused to consider it.
“You make too much money,” the other said in conclusion. “You too rich, I think. Well, I leave my card. Perhaps some time you come to see me. Some time,” he looked Ben squarely in the face, “if Mr. Fish make you trouble, you come to see me.” With which enigmatical remark he politely bowed and took his departure.