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Updated: May 31, 2025
Quong carried in a couple of pails full of boiling water; we laid out shaving tackle, an old suit of grey flannel, a pair of brown shoes, and the necessary under-linen. A blue bird's-eye tie, I remember, was the last touch. Then Ajax shrugged his shoulders and said significantly, "You know what this means?" "Rehabilitation." "Exactly.
Yet it may be taken into the stomach with impunity. Strange, is it not? The minute quantity that you see here is all that I possess, and I shall feel honored if you will accept it. But, he added, clutching Ah Moy by the wrist, 'should trouble come, remember that I Quong Lee "'Trust me for that, venerable Uncle of the Moon; your name shall not be breathed in the matter, whatever happens.
There we stayed the long summer afternoon, swinging the rocker while Quong shoveled in the pebbly dirt, watching him take the black sand, which held the gold, off the canvas with his little spade-like scoop, and panning it for him in the heavy iron pan, fascinated to see what we should find.
Then he stiffened, the muscles around his right eye clamping tighter on the monocle. Leaning forward, he punched Harry Quong lightly on the man's right shoulder. "Yes, sir; I saw it," the Chinese-Australian driver replied. "Terrans in trouble; bein' mobbed by geeks. Aircar parked right in the bloody middle of it." The car made a twisting, banking loop and came back, more slowly.
We thought we must keep him for a day or two, on account of the weather, and just to show him that he could not do what we wanted; but he proved too amusing for us to think of letting him go. His name is Quong.
"Hello, Quong!" he called, interposing himself. "Where you goin'?" Quong paused with a deprecating gesture of widely spread open palms. "'Lo yourself!" replied blandly. "Me go buy li'l' glocery." Mooney ran his hands over the rotund body, frisking him for a possible forty-four. "For the love of Mike!" he exclaimed, tearing open Quong's blouse. "What sort of an undershirt is that?"
I am in haste! "'You ask much of me, Ah Moy, after your harsh, ill-timed words of the morning, remarked Quong Lee coldly. "'Forget them, O Munificent; forget them, said Ah Moy, deeply contrite. 'Carried away by excitement, your abject slave considered but lightly what he then so foolishly said, and now so fervently regrets and and let's drop this powwow, Quong Lee. I have no time for it!
"Wheer's the Chinaman Quong?" I recognised the voice of a cowboy whom we had employed: a man known in the foothills as Cock-a-whoop Charlie. "He's here," Ajax answered quietly. A tall, gaunt Missourian, also well known to us as a daring bull- puncher, laughed derisively. "Here is he? Wal, we want him, but we don't want no fuss with you, boys. Yer white, but he's yaller, and he must go."
They are dead, long ago Ah Quong, old Sing, Shotgun-Chinaman and gone to the blessed region of the Five Immortals, I know, but every true Californian will understand the regard the pioneer families had for these faithful Chinese servitors who took as much loving pride in the aristocratic and unblemished names of their "familees" as the white persons who bore them.
"Yep!" she called through the passage. "Got the bird?" Mock looked at Murtha, who was carrying the terrapin. "Sure!" he called back. "Sit down, boys. What'd yer want? Can't yer tell a feller?" "We want you for croaking Quong Lee!" snapped Mooney. "Where have you been?" "Fulton Market and Hudson House. I left here quarter of four. I haven't seen Quong Lee. Where was he killed?"
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