“Me wishee see you,” said the apparition, smiling blandly; “me comee
in?”
“Come in, by all means,” I said without enthusiasm, and, switching on
the light in my study, I admitted the Chinaman and stood facing him
with an expression upon my face which I doubt not was the reverse of
agreeable.
My visitor, who wore a slop-shop suit, also wore a wide-brimmed bowler
hat; now, the set bland smile still upon his yellow face, he removed the
bowler and pointed significantly to his skull.
His pigtail had been severed some three inches from the root!
“You gotchee my pigtail,” he explained; “me callee get it--thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said grimly. “But I must ask you to establish your claim
rather more firmly.”
“Yessir,” agreed the Chinaman.
And thereupon in tolerable pidgin English he unfolded his tale. He
proclaimed his name to be Hi Wing Ho, and his profession that of a
sailor, or so I understood him. While ashore at Suez he had become
embroiled with some drunken seamen: knives had been drawn, and in the
scuffle by some strange accident his pigtail had been severed. He
had escaped from the conflict, badly frightened, and had run a great
distance before he realized his loss. Since Southern Chinamen of his
particular Tong hold their pigtails in the highest regard, he had
instituted inquiries as soon as possible, and had presently learned from
a Chinese member of the crew of the S.S. Jupiter that the precious queue
had fallen into the hands of a fireman on that vessel. He (Hi Wing Ho)
had shipped on the first available steamer bound for England, having in
the meanwhile communicated with his friend on the Jupiter respecting the
recovery of the pigtail.
“What was the name of your friend on the Jupiter?”
“Him Li Ping--yessir!”--without the least hesitation or hurry.