"Let me go;—you—damned—Chink!"
She muttered the words under her breath.
He heard her.
He thought of the drunkard and he thought of her.
Suddenly he felt quite furious; stilly, sinisterly furious.
"I'm 'Melican."
He said it stolidly. His narrow, black eyes were unwavering on her.
She began to cry.
"Let me go," she whimpered. "I ain't done nothing to you. I couldn't have got on to your being—a—Chink."
"What diffelence does that make?" He asked. And then he reiterated with careful precision: "I tell you I'm a 'Melican."