ely. Out of much that was
unintelligible, the last statement loomed clear and incontrovertible.

"I'm a thief!" burst out Reynolds passionately, not to Tsang now, but to
the world at large, "a plain, common thief. And the worst of it is there
isn't a man in that San Francisco office that doesn't trust me down to
the ground. Then there's the Governor. O God! I can't face the
Governor!"

Tsang sat immovable, lost in thought. Stray words and phrases helped,
but it was by some subtle working of his own complex brain that he was
arriving at the truth.

"Father, him no can lend money?" he suggested presently.

"The Governor? Good heavens, no. There's not enough money in our whole
family to wad a gun! They put up all they had to give me a start, and
look where I have landed! Do you suppose I'd go back and ask them to put
up a thousand more for my rotten foolishness?" He knotted his hands
together until the nails grew white then, seeing the unenlightened face
below, he added emphatically: "No, no, Tsang, no can askee!"

"How fashion you losee money!" asked Tsang.

"The money? Oh, belong gamble. Bet on ship's run. First day--win. Second
day--win. Then lose, lose, keep on losing. Didn't know half the time
what I was doing. To-day my settle up; no can pay office. A thousand
dollars out! Lord! All same two thousand Mex', Tsang!"

An invisible calculation was made on the end of the steamer trunk by a
long, pointed, fingernail, but no change of expression crossed the
yellow face. For an incalculable time Tsang sat, lost in thought. All
his conserved energy went to aid him in solving the problem. At last he
reached a decision: this was clearly a case to be laid before the only
god be knew, the god of Chance.

"Me gamble too," he said; "me no lose."

"But s'pose you _had_ lost? S'pose you lose what no belong you? What
thing you do?"

"You do all same my talkee you?" asked Tsang, for the first time lifting
his eyes.

It was a slender straw, to be sure, but Reynolds grasped at it.

"What thing you mean, Tsang? What can I do?"

"Two more night' to San Flancisco," said Tsang softly; "one more bet,
maybe!"

"Oh, I've thought of that. What's the good of throwing good money after
bad? No use, I no got chance."

"_My_ have got chance," announced Tsang emphatically, "you bet how
fashion my talkee you, your money come back."

Reynolds studied the brass knocker of a face, but found no clue to the
riddle. "What you mean, Tsang