"All same Honolulu. Sabe? Mother Kanaka lady—washum clothes for sailor peoples down Kaui way," and he laughed as though it were a huge joke.
"Well, say, Jim," said Hillegas; "we want you to tell our fortunes. You sabe? Tell the lady's fortune. Who she going to marry, for instance."
"No fortune—tattoo."
"Tattoo?"
"Um. All same tattoo—three, four, seven, plenty lil birds on lady's arm. Hey? You want tattoo?"
He drew a tattooing needle from his sleeve and motioned towards Miss Ten Eyck's arm.
"Tattoo my arm? What an idea! But wouldn't it be funny, Tom? Aunt Hattie's sister came back from Honolulu with the prettiest little butterfly tattooed on her finger. I've half a mind to try. And it would be so awfully queer and original."
"Let him do it on your finger, then. You never could wear evening dress if it was on your arm."
"Of course. He can tattoo something as though it was a ring, and my marquise can hide it."
The Kanaka-Chinaman drew a tiny fantastic-looking butterfly on a bit of paper with a blue pencil, licked the drawing a couple of times, and wrapped it about Miss Ten Eyck's little finger—the little finger of her left hand. The removal of the wet paper left an imprint of the drawing. Then he mixed his ink in a small sea-shell, dipped his needle, and in ten minutes had finished the tattooing of a grotesque little insect, as much butterfly as anything else.