Sooey Wan flew—or rather pretended to fly—into a rage. “Helluva note,” he cried, and shied a butcher knife into the sink. “Twenty year I cook for you papa, but he never late. Papa allee time in heap hurry. Son, allee time go slow, takum easy. Well, you likee lotten dinner I ketchum, boss. You likee A-numba-one dinner no can do—gee, Missa Dan, wha’s mallah? You no look happy.”
“I’m a bit distressed tonight, Sooey Wan.”
Sooey Wan stood up and laid a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You tell Sooey Wan,” he urged, and in his faded old eyes, in his manner and in the intonation of his voice, no longer shrill with pretended rage, there was evidenced the tremendous affection which the old San Francisco Chinese servant class always accords to a kindly and generous employer and particularly to that employer’s children.
“A good friend has died, Sooey Wan.”
“That’s hell,” said Sooey Wan sympathetically. “Me know him, boss?”
“Yes, he was a friend of yours, too, Sooey, Captain Larrieau, the Frenchman with the big beard.”
“Sure, I remember him. When he come Sooey Wan have sole for dinner. He teachee me how makum sauce Margie Lee.”
“Yes, poor Gaston was very fond of tenderloin of sole with sauce Margery, as it is made in Marseilles. Well, he’s dead, Sooey Wan, and tonight I brought his daughter home with me. I am her guardian.”
“Allee same papa, eh?”
Dan nodded, and Sooey Wan thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “All li’, Missa Dan,” he replied. “I have A-numba-one dinner! Too bad captain die. Him one really nice man—him likee Missa Dan velly much. Too bad!”