The child of the white woman, who had been given a babe into the arms of
the wife of Lum Yook, was regarded as their own by the Chinese jeweller
and his wife, and they bestowed upon him equal love and care with the
little daughter who came two years after him. If Mrs. Lum Yook showed
any favoritism whatever, it was to Pat. He was the first she had cradled
to her bosom; the first to gladden her heart with baby smiles and wiles;
the first to call her Ah Ma; the first to love her. On his eighth
birthday, she said to her husband: “The son of the white woman is the
son of the white woman, and there are many tongues wagging because he
lives under our roof. My heart is as heavy as the blackest heavens.”
“Peace, my woman,” answered the easy-going man. “Why should we trouble
before trouble comes?”
When trouble did come it was met calmly and bravely. To the comfortably
off American and wife who were to have the boy and “raise him as an
American boy should be raised,” they yielded him without protest. But
deep in their hearts was the sense of injustice and outraged love. If it
had not been for their pity for the unfortunate white girl, their care
and affection for her helpless offspring, there would have been no white
boy for others to “raise.”
And Pat and Pan? “I will not leave my Pan! I will not leave my Pan!”
shouted Pat.
“But you must!” sadly urged Lum Yook. “You are a white boy and Pan is
Chinese.”
“I am Chinese too! I am Chinese too!” cried Pat.
“He Chinese! He Chinese!” pleaded Pan. Her little nose was swollen with
crying; her little eyes red-rimmed.
But Pat was driven away.
* * * * *
Pat, his schoolbooks under his arm, was walking down the hill, whistling
cheerily. His roving glance down a side street was suddenly arrested.
“Gee!” he exclaimed. “If that isn’t Pan! Pan, oh, Pan!” he shouted.
Pan turned. There was a shrill cry of delight, and Pan was clinging to
Pat, crying: “Nice Pat! Good Pat!”
Then she pushed him away from her and scanned him from head to foot.
“Nice coat! Nice boot! How many dollars?” she queried.
Pat laughed good-humoredly. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Mother bought
them.”
“Mother!” echoed Pan. She puckered her brows for a moment.
“You are grown big, Pat,” was her next remark.
“And you have grown little, Pan,” retorted Pat. It was a year since they
had seen one another and Pan was much smaller than any of his girl
schoolfellows.
“Do you like to go to the big school?” asked Pan, noticing the books.
“I don’t like it very much. But, say, Pan, I learn lots of things that
you don’t know anything about.”
Pan eyed him wistfully. finally she said: “O Pat! A-Toy, she die.”
“A-Toy! Who is A-Toy?”
“The meow, Pat; the big gray meow! Pat, you have forgot to remember.”
Pat looked across A-Toy’s head and far away.
“Chinatown is very nice now,” assured Pan. “Hum Lock has two trays of
brass beetles in his store and Ah Ma has many flowers!”
“I would like to see the brass beetles,” said Pat.
“And father’s new glass case?”
“Yes.”
“And Ah Ma’s flowers?”
“Yes.”
“Then come, Pat.”
“I can’t, Pan!”
“Oh!”
Again Pat was walking home from school, this time in company with some
boys. Suddenly a glad little voice sounded in his ear. It was Pan’s.
“Ah, Pat!” cried she joyfully. “I find you! I find you!”
“Hear the China kid!” laughed one of the boys.
Then Pat turned upon Pan. “Get away from me,” he shouted. “Get away from
me!”
And Pan did get away from him—just as fast as her little legs could
carry her. But when she reached the foot of the hill, she looked up and
shook her little head sorrowfully. “Poor Pat!” said she. “He Chinese no
more; he Chinese no more!”