at the head of a long table surrounded by three hundred Chinamen in
their richest robes of ceremony. Lanterns of party-colored glass
swaying from gilded rafters shed a strange light upon a silken cloth
marvelously embroidered and laden with the choicest of Oriental dishes,
and upon the pale faces of the Hip Leong Tong--the Mocks, the Wongs, the
Fongs and the rest--both those who had testified and also those who had
merely been ready if duty called to do so, all of whom were now gathered
together to pay honor where they felt honor to be due; namely, at the
shrine of Mr. Tutt.

Deft Chinese waiters slipped silently from guest to guest with
bird's-nest soup, guy soo main, mon goo guy pan, shark's fin and lung
har made of shreds of lobster, water chestnuts, rice and the succulent
shoots of the young bamboo, while three musicians in a corner sang
through their nose a syncopated dirge. "Wang-ang-ang-ang!" it rose and
fell as Mr. Tutt, his neck encircled by a wreath of lilies, essayed to
manipulate a pair of long black chop-sticks. "Wang-ang-ang-ang!" About
him were golden limes, ginger in syrup, litchi nuts, pickled leeches.

Then he felt a touch upon his shoulder and turned to see Fong Hen, the
slipper, standing beside him. It was the duty of Fong Hen to drink with
each guest--more than that, to drink as much as each guest drank! He
gravely offered Mr. Tutt a pony of rice brandy. It was not the fiery
lava he had anticipated, but a soft, caressing nectar, fragrant as if
distilled from celestial flowers of the time of Confucius. The slipper
swallowed the same quantity at a gulp, bowed and passed along.

Mr. Tutt vainly tried to grasp the fact that he was in his own native
city of New York. Long sleeves covered with red and purple dragons hid
his arms and hands, and below the collar a smooth tight surface of silk