Mac carried Jenny into Wong's shack, and laid her on the bed. Though the house smelt of China and of opium it was clean as fresh sawdust. They washed the blood from her and the child, while Sam cried, fearing she was hurt. And she came back to consciousness. Mac was very solemn.
"Where the boss, you tink?" asked Wong.
The men who had followed George Quin down the river were home again by now. They brought back with them the empty boat.
"I reckon he's dead," answered Mac. Sam cried, for he was "heap solly." Quin had been a good boss to him and there are many Chinamen who understand that after all, whatever we may say about them.
"Oh, the Missus, the Missus," said Sam. He sat down and sobbed. Jenny opened her eyes and saw old Wong, with a million wrinkles on his kindly face, inscrutable in every feature.
"Tchorch," she murmured. The tears came to Mac's eyes, though he was hard to move and knew much of the bitterness of life.
Wong's face was like that of some carved god who sits in the peace which is undisturbed by human prayer. And yet his hands were kind and his voice gentle. He murmured to himself in his own tongue.
"Where is Tchorch?" asked Jenny. Now she saw Long Mac, whom Quin trusted. She appealed to the strong man.
"He has not returned, ma'am," said Mac. She was no longer a little Siwash klootchman to him, but a bereaved woman.
She looked at him long and steadfastly, and read his face. She was an Indian, after all, and could endure much.