And another thing, she never knew the real meaning of the word opportunity.
In her early and halcyon days before the opium and the night life had stamped its mark upon her face, there came, with a party of sight-seers to Chinatown one night, a man about town whose name stood for respectability, good family and wealth. She, as Queen, could not well be overlooked, and the guide took the party to her apartments on the first floor of a dingy tenement.
“What’s up here?” asked one of the party.
“Here is where de Queen of Chinatown lives,” responded the guide. “Dis is de gal wots got all de gang on de run, and as fer de Chinkys—why, dere ain’t one uv dem wot wouldn’t croak a guy fer her.”
They filed into the room and looked at the girl as they looked at the rest of the odd sights.
Let anybody rise above the human herd, even a short distance, or do anything that is in the slightest way unusual, and they are bound to find themselves in the center of the spot light.
“Youse kin buy a drink off her, if yer like, or if yer’ll cough up er bone apiece, she’ll show yer how to hit der pipe,” announced the guide.
They thought it was worth a dollar each to see a Queen smoking opium, and all cheerfully handed her the fee, with the exception of this one particular man, who pressed five times the amount into her hand.
Curious things happen in this world of ours, and here is one of them:
Two hours later, the same man, who had slipped away from his party, hunted up the same guide, and giving him a good-sized fee requested the honor of another visit to the Queen.