On every side
the many windows of the several-storied shack-buildings looked
down. In the centre of the garden, on the narrow gravelled walk
close beside the lake Ah Kim was noisily receiving his beating.
No Chinese lad of tender and beatable years was Ah Kim. His was
the store of Ah Kim Company, and his was the achievement of
building it up through the long years from the shoestring of
savings of a contract coolie labourer to a bank account in four
figures and a credit that was gilt edged. An even half-century of
summers and winters had passed over his head, and, in the passing,
fattened him comfortably and snugly. Short of stature, his full
front was as rotund as a water-melon seed. His face was moon-
faced. His garb was dignified and silken, and his black-silk
skull-cap with the red button atop, now, alas! fallen on the
ground, was the skull-cap worn by the successful and dignified
merchants of his race.
But his appearance, in this moment of the present, was anything but
dignified. Dodging and ducking under a rain of blows from a bamboo
cane, he was crouched over in a half-doubled posture.
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