"Why, hello, Ah Cum! What's the trouble?" Ah Cum took his hands from his sleeves. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. " "You're a damn fool, too!" exploded the trader. " "Treated you like a white man there, did they?" "Like a gentleman. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. Had to. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. In vain he fondly urged his suit, And, all in vain, the question put; She answered,—"Mr. "There's a young woman.
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