“I don’t like this part of the business,” he muttered.
The first officer turned to Hom Hing and in an official tone of voice, said:
“Seeing that the boy has no certificate entitling him to admission to this country you will have to leave him with us.”
“Leave my boy!” exclaimed Hom Hing.
“Yes; he will be well taken care of, and just as soon as we can hear from Washington he will be handed over to you.”
“But,” protested Hom Hing, “he is my son.”
“We have no proof,” answered the man with a shrug of his shoulders; “and even if so we cannot let him pass without orders from the Government.”
“He is my son,” reiterated Hom Hing, slowly and solemnly. “I am a Chinese merchant and have been in business in San Francisco for many years. When my wife told to me one morning that she dreamed of a green tree with spreading branches and one beautiful red flower growing thereon, I answered her that I wished my son to be born in our country, and for her to prepare to go to China. My wife complied with my wish. After my son was born my mother fell sick and my wife nursed and cared for her; then my father, too, fell sick, and my wife also nursed and cared for him. For twenty moons my wife care for and nurse the old people, and when they die they bless her and my son, and I send for her to return to me. I had no fear of trouble. I was a Chinese merchant and my son was my son.”
“Very good, Hom Hing,” replied the first officer. “Nevertheless, we take your son.”
“No, you not take him; he my son too.”