Mista Sam Kow, on
Mista Minista colla-band. See? Mista Sam Kow lite a letta back on
colla-band. See?"

We saw--that the yellow man was no longer talking at random, but slowly,
with his eyes on the collar he held in his hand, like a scholar in his
closet, perusing the occult pages of a chronicle.

"Mista Sam Kow say: 'This man go night-time in Chestnut Stleet; pickee
out letta undah sidewalk, stickee money-bag undah sidewalk, cly, shivah,
makee allee same like sick fella. Walkee all lound town allee night.
Allee same like Chlistian dlunk man. No sleepee. That's all--Sam Kow.'
Mista Yen Sin keepee colla when Mista Minista come back; give new colla:
one, two, five, seven time; Mista Minista say: 'You washy colla fine,
Yen Sin: this colla, allee same like new.' Mista Matee Snow, his colla
allee same like new, too--"

* * *

Something happened so suddenly that none of us knew what was going on.
But there was my cousin Duncan standing by the counter, his arm and
shoulder still thrust forward with the blow he had given; and there was
our great man of the hill flung back against the wall with a haggard
grimace set on his face.

"No, you don't!" Duncan growled, his voice shivering a little with
excitement. "No, you don't, Mate!"

Mate Snow screamed, and his curse was like the end of the world in Urkey
island.

"Curse you! The man's a thief, I tell you. He's stolen my property! I
demand my property--those collars there in his hand now. You're
constable, you say. Well, I want my--"

He let himself down on the bench, as if the strength had left his knees.

"He's going to tell you lies," he cried. "He's making fools of you all
with his--his--Duncan, boy! Don't listen to the black liar. He's going
to try and make out 'twas _me_ put the letter under the walk in Chestnut
Street, up there to Infield; that it was _me_, all these years, that
went back and got out money he put there. _Me! Mate Snow._ Duncan, boy;
he's going to tell you a low, black-hearted lie!"

"_How do you know?_" That was all my cousin Duncan said.

To the dying man, nothing made much difference. It was as if he had only
paused to gather his failing breath, and when he spoke his tone was the
same, detached, dispassionate, with a ghost of humor running through it.

"How many times?" He counted the collars with a finger tip. "One two,
tlee, six, seven time. Seven yeahs. Too bad. Any time Mista Minista
wantee confessee, Mista God makee allee light. Mista Ye