boss. Boahn San Flancisco. Foahty-flive yeah old now.”
“Born here, eh? Is that so? Then you’ve got your chock-gee, I suppose. Let me see it.”
Bob Eden’s heart sank to his boots. Though many Chinese were without chock-gees, he knew that the lack of one would be sufficient excuse for this stupid policeman to arrest Chan at once. Another moment, and they’d all be done for—
“Come on,” bellowed Bliss.
“What you say, boss?” parried Ah Kim.
“You know what I said. Your chock-gee—certificate—hand it over or by heaven I’ll lock you up so quick—”
“Oh, boss—ce’tiflicate—allight, boss.” And before Eden’s startled gaze the Chinese took from his blouse a worn slip of paper about the size of a bank note, and handed it to Bliss.
The Captain read it sourly and handed it back. “All right—but I ain’t through with you yet,” he said.
“Thanks, boss,” returned Ah Kim, brightening. “You plenty crazy, boss. Thasaw. Goo’by.” And he shuffled away.
“I told you it looked terrible mysterious to me,” commented the constable.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, shut up,” cried Bliss. “Mr. Madden, I’ll have to admit I’m stumped for the time being. But that condition don’t last long with me. I’ll get to the bottom of this yet. You’ll see me again.”
“Run out any time,” Madden invited with deep insincerity. “If I happen on anything, I’ll call Constable Brackett.”
