"Leave those things on the table in the big room--understand?"
"Me savee," grunted Wang, moving off.
Heyst watched the Chinaman disappear from the veranda. It was not till
he had seen Wang come out that he himself entered the twilight of the
big room. By that time Wang was out of sight at the back of the house,
but by no means out of hearing. The Chinaman could hear the voice of
him who, when there were many people there, was generally referred to
as "Number One." Wang was not able to understand the words, but the tone
interested him.
"Where are you?" cried Number One.
Then Wang heard, much more faint, a voice he had never heard before--a
novel impression which he acknowledged by cocking his head slightly to
one side.
"I am here--out of the sun."
The new voice sounded remote and uncertain. Wang heard nothing more,
though he waited for some time, very still, the top of his shaven poll
exactly level with the floor of the back veranda. His face meanwhile
preserved an inscrutable immobility. Suddenly he stooped to pick up
the lid of a deal candle-box which was lying on the ground by his foot.
Breaking it up with his fingers, he directed his steps towards the
cook-shed, where, squatting on his heels, he proceeded to kindle a small
fire under a very sooty kettle, possibly to make tea. Wang had some
knowledge of the more superficial rites and ceremonies of white men's
existence, otherwise so enigmatically remote to his mind, and containing
unexpected possibilities of good and evil, which had to be watched for
with prudence and care.
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