THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"No can do. She keel me I spig outside. No can do. I lig you. You no same's oth' women." Saki San approached Ruth and inspected her with that frank and childish curiosity of the Japanese. She giggled. "Velly nice. I come topside two time day. Tea? Coffee?"
As Ruth did not answer, she bobbed up and down several times. Then she went to the door in that slipshod manner which is charming in the Orient and slovenly elsewhere.
Ruth sat up in a chair all night, and toward morning she fell asleep from exhaustion. So long as she remained a prisoner in this room she was determined not to sleep at night or to undress. She was not wholly ignorant of this phase of life, and resolved to steal what sleep she could during the day. There was always something in the newspapers; and she recalled that life among these outcasts began at sundown and ended at sunrise.
The first day was very hot and very quiet. It rained a little. It is always raining a little in Singapore.
There were combs and brushes on the bureau, but she did not touch them, much as she longed to.
Her breakfast consisted of eggs, tea, and toast. She was not hungry, but she knew that only by eating could she keep her strength.
The little Japanese girl, who was really as pretty as a doll, noticed the snarled and tumbled hair of the prisoner. When she came in with the evening meal she carried a new brush and comb.
"These new. Chinaman buy 'em shop over
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