“I want plenty fine funeral in Chinatown in San Francisco. Oh, heap fine! You buy um first-chop coffin—savvy? Silver heap much—costum big money. You gib my money to Hop Sing Association, topside Ming Yen temple. You savvy Hop Sing?—one Six Companies.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Tellum Hop Sing I want funeral—four-piecee horse. You no flogettee horse?” he added apprehensively.
“No, I'll not forget the horses Charlie. You shall have four.”
“Want six-piecee band musicians—China music—heap plenty gong. You no flogettee? Two piecee priest, all dressum white—savvy? You mus' buyum coffin yo'self. Velly fine coffin, heap much silver, an' four-piecee horse. You catchum fireclacker—one, five, seven hundled fireclacker, makeum big noise; an' loast pig, an' plenty lice an' China blandy. Heap fine funeral, costum fifteen hundled dollah. I be bury all same Mandarin—all same Little Pete. You plomise, sure?”
“I promise you, Charlie. You shall have a funeral finer than little Pete's.”
Charlie nodded his head contentedly, drawing a breath of satisfaction.
“Bimeby Hop Sing sendum body back China.” He closed his eyes and lay for a long time, worn out with the effort of speaking, as if asleep. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. “You no flogettee horse?”
“Four horses, Charlie. I'll remember.”
He drooped once more, only to rouse again at the end of a few minutes with: