A voice called, in pidgin-English.
He replied gruffly; sat up; struck a match and lighted the rush-light on the table. It was just after eight.
He went to the door; opened it. A small, soft, yellow Chinaman stood there.
“What do you want?” Doane asked in Chinese.
The yellow man looked blank.
“My no savvy,” he said.
“What side you belong?” The familiar pidgin-English phrases sounded grotesquely in Doane's ears, even as they fell from his own lips.
“My belong Shanghai side,” explained the man. He was apparently a servant. Some one would have brought him out here. Though to what end it would be hard to guess, for a servant who can not make himself understood has small value. And no Shanghai man can do that in Hansi.
“What pidgin belong you this side?”
“My missy wanchee chin-chin.”