THE SIAMESE CAT
Keep out of my curry. Scat! You and your absurd collar both aren't worth sixty tics." He examined it idly: the silver was thin and light, the workmanship curious but crude, the three silver cockle-shells—their edges slightly parted to make resonant the tinkling pellets within—were fat and clumsy. "No," he repeated, "in harness as you stand, Chao, not sixty. Hallo, what's this?"
With his gula the boy Ah Ling brought in a basket of golden mangoes. Mr. San Dass sent them by bearer, explained Ah Ling: "Name card no have-got."
"Sanders, eh," said Owen, choosing the most luscious. "He's a brick! These are Number One Gold Chop mangoes." He sliced one, and had raised the first spoonful to his lips, when Ah Ling laid beside the plate a letter addressed in a hand which drove all else to oblivion. He tore it open and read:
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