“Yes, Doctor; me no afraid of the sickness or the fever. Mine God would go with Ching; no God, all danger; with God, all safee.”
“Come on, then, I want you right away.”
The days grew hotter and the fever grew fiercer, and the requirements of the irritable, dying man became almost unendurable; but the ungainly Ching never flinched as with untiring, patient hands he waited upon the hard master whose young life was fast burning itself out in the relentless fires of the unyielding fever.
Mr. Fairfax had been fitfully dozing at the close of a weaker, but slightly more comfortable day, when, on suddenly opening his eyes, he saw Ching catching a peep into a little, dark book he had noticed before–one he had evidently carried about with him.
All at once he asked in a thin, vexed voice:
“What confounded book is that you’re always reading?”
The slant eyes filled with tears as a hurt voice replied:
“This mine Bible, my Christ book; my passport in this book; this no confound book, this mine dear Bible!”
“Your passport!” and the thin voice really had the semblance of a laugh it. “What kind of a passport, pray!”