"Me make some," admitted Ah Sing. "Workee vellee hard many year—make maybe eighteen—twentee thousan'."
"What became of it, Ah Sing? Don't gamble, do you?"
The Chinaman shook his head emphatically, "Me no gamble. Gamble—nobody trust. Me pick cotton for Misty Jenkins."
Bob was interested in that. He knew that after raising Jenkins' crop Ah Sing had taken the contract to pick it. Bob had heard other things but not from the Chinaman. "Didn't you make some money on that, too?"
"No money."
"Why not?" Bob spoke quickly. "Tell me about it, Ah Sing."
The Chinaman sighed again and the long, long look came into his patient oriental eyes.
"Ah work in America ever since leetle boy—so high. After while I save leetle money. Want go back China visit. I have cer-tificate. When I come back, say it's no good. Put me in jail. Don't know why. Stay long time. Send me back China. Then I come Mexico. Can't cross line; say damn Mexican Chinaman. I raise cotton—I raise lettuce—make leetle money. Maybee twent' thousan'.
"Misty Jenkins say 'Ah Sing, want pick my cotton?' I say, 'Maybee.' He say, 'Give you ten dollar bale. You do all work—feed Chinamen.' I say, 'Vellee well.' Lots Chinaboys need work. I hire seven hund'—eight hund'—maybee thousan.' I feed 'em. I pick cotton. Pick eight thousan' bale. Take all my money feed 'em. I owe Chinaboys fifty thousan' dollar.
"No pay. No see Misty Jenkins. No cross line. Misty Jenkins pay sometime maybee—maybee not." The old Chinaman shook his head fatalistically.