your honor as a gentleman, that the late Mr. Webster ever uttered such a
sentiment? If you are, sir, I am willing to publish your denial."

The colonel was not, and left, highly indignant.

Webster, the foreman, took it more coolly. Happily, he was unaware,
that, for two days after, Chinamen from the laundries, from the gulches,
from the kitchens, looked in the front office-door, with faces beaming
with sardonic delight; that three hundred extra copies of the "Star"
were ordered for the wash-houses on the river. He only knew, that,
during the day, Wan Lee occasionally went off into convulsive spasms,
and that he was obliged to kick him into consciousness again. A week
after the occurrence, I called Wan Lee into my office.

"Wan," I said gravely, "I should like you to give me, for my own
personal satisfaction, a translation of that Chinese sentence which
my gifted countryman, the late godlike Webster, uttered upon a public
occasion." Wan Lee looked at me intently, and then the slightest
possible twinkle crept into his black eyes. Then he replied with equal
gravity,--

"Mishtel Webstel, he say, 'China boy makee me belly much foolee. China
boy makee me heap sick.'" Which I have reason to think was true.

But I fear I am giving but one side, and not the best, of Wan Lee's
character. As he imparted it to me, his had been a hard life. He had
known scarcely any childhood: he had no recollection of a father or
mother. The conjurer Wang had brought him up. He had spent the first
seven years of his life in appearing from baskets, in dropping out of
hats, in climbing ladders, in putting his little limbs out of joint in