“I don’t blame him!” answered Jim, across the polished counter.
“Me go back next week my old job. Me go back work in big bank. Me be janitor. Me washee window, washee floor; watchman allee night-time,––see!”
“You be heap scared, Sing! Devil he get you in bank.”
“No,––me no scared! Me bling three, four black cat. Me losem pig-tail,––me Canadian,––me no scared no more.”
“Canadian,––but still hanging on to the black cat theory,––eh! That’s just typical of what we have to suffer, Phil, in this country.
“Well, the bank has a lot to answer for. Man, Phil, but it would serve them rightly if they got let in some day, employing that kind of labour when they could get decent white if only they cared to pay the price.
“Sing!––what you want? We heap busy.”
“I catchem letter my uncle,––see!”
He handed a paper to Jim which was brushed over with black Chinese characters.
“Maybe you are a Canuck, Sing, but I’m no blooming Chinaman. What does this say?”