He patted his employer on the shoulder in a manner that meant volumes.
“The lady has to dress, Sooey Wan, so we cannot have dinner for half an hour yet.”
“You leavee dinner to Sooey Wan,” the old Chinaman assured him. “Missa Dan, you likee cocktail now?”
“Never mind, thank you.”
“Sure, boss, you likee cocktail now. You no talkee Sooey Wan. Sooey Wan fixee nice Gibson cocktail. My boy ketchum cold heart, Sooey Wan makum heart warm again. . . . Shut up, shut up! Boss, you allee time talkee too damn much.”
Realizing the uselessness of protest, Dan stood by while Sooey Wan manufactured the heart-warmer. And when the drink was ready the old Chinaman produced two glasses and filled one for himself. “I dlink good luck to spirit Captain Larrieau. Hoping devil no catchum,” he said. “Tonight me go joss-house and burn devil paper.”
He set down his empty glass and with paternal gentleness thrust Dan out of the kitchen; as the door swung to behind the latter, Sooey Wan began audibly to discharge a cargo of oaths, both Chinese and English. This appeared to relieve his feelings considerably, for presently he commenced to sing softly, which emboldened Graves to address him.
“Say, Sooey,” he suggested, “I wouldn’t mind bein’ wrapped around one of those cocktails of the boss’s myself.”
Sooey Wan looked at him—once. Once was sufficient. Ah, these new servants—these fresh American boys! How little did they know their place! What a febrile conception of their duty toward the author of the payroll was theirs!
“Bum!” hissed Sooey Wan. “Big Amelican bum!” Seizing the poker he commenced stirring the fire vigorously, from time to time favoring Graves with a tigerish glance which said all too plainly, “I stir the fire with this, but if I hear any more of your impudence I’ll knock your brains out with it.”