d himself confidently, while a
China-boy pushed a box of cigars towards him, a very good brand. And
behind came another boy with a tray of whisky and soda, while a third
boy carried sandwiches. It was all very well done, he thought
absently. The proprietor, being a parson's son and a University
graduate, did it very well. There was no disorder, it was all
beautifully done. He wondered what amount of squeeze the Chinese
received, for allowing such a fine place to remain undisturbed on
Chinese soil. A very big squeeze, certainly. They would surely be very
grasping, considering the warfare waged against them, upon their own
establishments, by the Europeans. It was all very interesting. Lawson
considered the matter critically, from various angles, knowing what he
knew. He sorted his chips carefully. It must pay the parson's son
well, he concluded, to be able to run such a fine place, in such
style, with so much to eat and drink and all, and with all those
motors to carry out the guests. All this in addition to the
squeeze--it must really be an enormous squeeze. And the people for
whose amusement this was established, were the people who were
employing him----

For a brief, fleeting second his eye rested upon the calm,
unquestioning face of the Chinese at the wheel, brother of the
proprietor of the fan-tan place he had raided a week ago. The placid
eye of the Oriental fixed his for the fraction of a second, even as he
called out the winning numbers. There was no recognition either way,
yet Lawson felt himself flushing. The wheel spun again and slowly
stopped, and he found himself gathering in thirty-five chips, raking
them in with eager fingers over the green cloth. It was all right
then, after all!

* * * * *

Lawson was going home. Speaking about this, some said, Well enough--he
has become quite incompetent of late. Getting stale, probably. Unable
to discover the obvious, losing his keenness. Ten years in the Far
East about does for one. But with Lawson, the situation was different.
He had become so tired of boundary lines, of perpetual swaying back
and forth from one side to the other, without conviction. Geographical
and moral concessions, wrong here, right there, had blurred his sense
of the abstract. All he was conscious of was an overwhelming desire to
leave it all and go home. And now he was going home. He was very glad.
It hurt to be so glad. He was going away from China, forever.