He came over to where I sat on the box and gingerly put his fingers into the pocket, bringing out the letter. By the lamplight he studied it long and carefully. Others then read it, and the powwowing started again, while I sat listening for the fatal luc zhe , and picturing myself back in the jail I had so lately escaped from. The boss now got a box and sat opposite me with the letter in his hand and a thoughtful, puzzled look on his leathery, wrinkled old face. The other Chinamen stood behind him, silent again. I saw I was going to be tried or examined, and hoping for an out, I began to figure some kind of a defense.

His accusing words bit into me like an acid. They were laden with scorn. I turned hot with shame and confusion. Tapping the letter with a long, bony finger, he said: “Him letter talk you good man. What for, you good man?”