“They went down a flight of narrow steps into a dark basement. There was an odor of punks, like one uses on the Fourth of July, and the strong breath of China Lilies. In through a latticed door went Fong Kee, with Mary and John clinging to each other’s hands, just the least bit frightened.
“The room they came to was decorated in beautiful golden scrolls of carved wood. At the end of the room was a queer wooden man, and at his feet was a bowl from which came a long ribbon of beautiful blue smoke. On a wooden couch another Chinaman was resting, smoking a small bronze pipe.
“Fong Kee spoke to him in Chinese and he arose and shook hands with John and Mary. Then he struck a metal bell and a Chinese slave girl appeared. He ordered her to bring tea and ginger. Then he turned to John.
“‘I am the old Fong Charles,’ he said. ‘More years I have lived in San Francisco than there are hairs on an old pig’s tail. I welcome you.’
“‘You look pretty old,’ said John. ‘What do you do? Are you a cook?’
“‘No,’ smiled Fong Charles. ‘I am a philosopher. I dream—and smoke my pipes.’
“‘I like nice dreams,’ said Mary.
“‘So!’ said Fong Charles. ‘Then, perhaps, while we await Sanka, my servant, who is as slow as the race of the turtles, I might tell you a dream or two.’
“He lifted John and Mary to a black wood table, where they sat, cross-legged, like tailors. Then he put between them a small black pedestal, on which rested a large, round ball of glass.
“‘So,’ said Fong Charles. ‘Into the dream glass you must look and the dreams you shall see.’