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
posturing. He had lived in an atmosphere of trickery and deception. He
had learned to look upon mankind as dupes of their senses: in fine, if
he had thought at all, he would have been a sceptic; if he had been a
little older, he would have been a cynic; if he had been older still,
he would have been a philosopher. As it was, he was a little imp. A
good-natured imp it was, too,--an imp whose moral nature had never
been awakened,--an imp up for a holiday, and willing to try virtue as
a diversion. I don't know that he had any spiritual nature. He was very
superstitious. He carried about with him a hideous little porcelain god,
which he was in the habit of alternately reviling and propitiating.
He was too intelligent for the commoner Chinese vices of stealing or
gratuitous lying. Whatever discipline he practised was taught by his
intellect.

I am inclined to think that his feelings were not altogether
unimpressible, although it was almost impossible to extract an
expression from him; and I conscientiously believe he became attached
to those that were good to him. What he might have become under more
favorable conditions than the bondsman of an overworked, under-paid
literary man, I don't know: I only know that the scant, irregular,
impulsive kindnes