Sam Wing was a resident of San Francisco. He owned a fairly prosperous bazaar, and, once every year, turned his profits into Mexican dollars and forwarded the silver to an uncle in Canton for investment in the land of his birth. Some day Sam Wing cherished the dream of returning to Canton and living like a grandee. But wealth came slowly. Now, there in that foreign devil's choo-choo car such a chance offered to secure unheard-of riches that Sam Wing's loyalty to the mandarin, no less than his heathen ideas of integrity, were brushed away with astounding suddenness.
Tsan Ti slept. His round head was wabbling on his short neck—rolling and swaying grotesquely with every lurch of the train. The red button of the mandarin's cap caught the dim rays of the overhead lamps and threw crimson gleams into the eyes of Sam Wing. This flashing button reminded Sam Wing of the red jewel, worth a king's ransom, which the mandarin was personally conveying to San Francisco, en route to China and the city of Canton.
Already Sam Wing was intrusted with the mandarin's money bag—an alligator-skin pouch containing many oblong pieces of green paper marked with figures of large denomination. The money was good, what there was of it, but that was not enough to pay for theft and flight. Sam Wing's long, talon-like fingers itched to lay hold of the red jewel.
With a swift, reassuring look at the passengers in the car, Sam Wing caught at the back of the seat in front and lifted himself erect. He was not a handsome Chinaman, by any means, and he appeared particularly repulsive just at that moment.
Hanging to the seat, he steadied himself as he stepped lightly across the aisle. Another moment and he was at the mandarin's side, looking down on him.
Tsan Ti, in his dreams, was again in Canton. Striding through the great chamber of the Honam joss house, he was superintending the return of the red jewel to the forehead of the twenty-foot idol, whence it had been stolen.
While the mandarin dreamed, Sam Wing bent down over him and, with cautious fingers, unfastened the loop of silk cord that held together the front of the yellow blouse. The rich garment fell open, revealing a small bag hanging from the mandarin's throat by a chain.
Swiftly, silently, and with hardly a twitch of the little bag, two of Sam Wing's slim, long-nailed fingers were inserted, and presently drew forth a resplendent gem, large as a small hen's egg.
A gasping breath escaped Sam Wing's lips. For a fraction of an instant he hesitated. What if his ancestors were regarding him, looking out of the vastness of the life to come with stern disapproval? A Chinaman worships his ancestors, and the shades of the ancient ones of his blood have a great deal to do with the regulating of his life. What were Sam Wing's forefathers thinking of this act of vile treachery?
The thief ground his teeth and, with trembling hands, stowed the red jewel in the breast of his blouse. He started toward the rear door of the car—and hesitated again.