"Him say fight. Him heap big man, alle same have Dlagon's blood. Him say fight, we fight, sabe?" And he pointed to Kan Wong—Kan Wong, his head bleeding from a wound, his eyes glowing with a green fury from between their narrow lids, his long, strong hands, red with blood other than his own, still clutching his rifle with a grip that had a tenderly savage joy in it.
The officer approached him.
"Are you the man who rallied the coolies and held the line?" he asked shortly.
Kan Wong stiffened with a dignity to which he now felt he had a right.
"Me fight," he said quietly—"me fight, coolie fight, too. Me belong
Dlagon's blood. One time my people fighting men; long time I wait."
"You'll wait no longer," said the officer. He unpinned the cross from his tunic and fastened it to the torn, bloody blouse of Kan Wong. "Off to the east are men of your own race, fighting-men from China, Cochin-China. That is the place for a man of the Dragon's blood—and that is the tool that belongs in your hand till we're done with this mess." He pointed to the rifle that Kan Wong still held with a stiff, loving, lingering grip.
And so, on the other side of the world, the son of the Dragon came to his own and realized the dreams of a glory he had missed.
"HUMORESQUE"
By FANNIE HURST
From Cosmopolitan