"Mebbe can do," asserted Lo Ong, in the voice and manner of one incessantly pursued by favor-seekers. Lo Ong's draped arm, as if it were detached from his body and governed by some extraneous mechanism, indicated a mat. Moore slipped down in the familiar cross-legged attitude, lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke at the belly on the dong.
"You Wanchee cumshaw?" demanded the Chinese, uneasily.
Peter Moore disdained to reply, extracted the two lumps of paper, slid one under his knee and unfolded the other, while Lo Ong looked unfavorably beyond him at the door. Three rows of Chinese markings were scrawled down it. Lo Ong's body commenced to sway back and forth in impatient rhythm.
"Lo Ong," stated Moore, "my wanchee you keep mouth shut—allatime shut—you savvy?"
"Can do," murmured Lo Ong indifferently. He reached for the rice paper, lifting it tenderly in long, clawing fingers, and held it to the flame. He seemed not to believe what he read, for he twisted the paper over, looked at it upside down, then sat down again, his lean fingers convulsing.
"No can do," he muttered, replacing the paper on his visitor's knee. "Mino savvy."
The white forefinger of the wireless operator pointed unwaveringly at the flattened nose. "Read that," he ordered.
Lo Ong glanced the other way, as if the subject had ceased to interest him, and tapped the floor with his knuckles.
"Wanchee money—cumshaw?"
"Lo Ong," declared Moore, losing his patience, "you b'long dead. Now savvy?"