Presently I heard a gentle rap. “Come in,” said I. And in there stalked a most surprising figure.
Now, if I had had my wits about me, I should have known it was a dream; for how could he have gotten in with the door locked? So I suppose I must have dreamed that it was not a dream. At any rate, there he was. A Chinaman,—but tall, athletic, and gorgeously arrayed in brocaded silks. A low bow, full of grace and dignity. I rose hastily, without either the one or the other.
“Ah Ying Kee,” said he, with another bow, at the same time lightly touching his left breast with the tips of the fingers of his right hand.
“Be seated, Mr. Kee,” said I, offering him a chair.
“Thanks; I have the honor of addressing Mr. Yang Kee?”
The afternoon was furiously hot. My man had the chest and neck of Hercules. So I contented myself with the haughty reply that my name was Whacker.
“No doubt,—no doubt,” replied he, with a courteous wave of the hand. “In a general way you are quite right; but for the special purpose of my visit permit me to insist that you are Mr. Yang Kee.”
It flashed across my mind that I was dealing with a large lunatic, and my anger cooled.
“Very well,” said I, “if you will have it so. I was never called a Yankee before, that’s all.”
“No doubt; nor have you the least idea that you are one. Still, I venture to remark—with your kind permission—that such is practically the fact. To your eye and ear there are differences between your people and those of Connecticut, just as I have no difficulty in distinguishing an inhabitant of the district of Hing Chang from a dweller on the banks of the Fi Fum. To you we are all Chinese. To us, Americans are all Yankees. Orientals, occidentals. Let Ying Kee stand for the one, Yang Kee for the other.”