“Deign to join me,” he suggested. “First course is now served with the kind assistance of the can-opener.”
“Aged in the tin, eh, Charlie?” smiled Eden, drawing up. “Well, I’ll bet it’s good, at that. You’re a bit of a magician in the kitchen.” They began to eat. “Charlie, I’ve been thinking,” the boy continued. “I know now why I have this sense of unrest on the desert. It’s because I feel so blamed small. Look at me, and then look out the window, and tell me where I get off to strut like a somebody through the world.”
“Not bad feeling for the white man to experience,” Chan assured him. “Chinese has it all time. Chinese knows he is one minute grain of sand on seashore of eternity. With what result? He is calm and quiet and humble. No nerves, like hopping, skipping Caucasian. Life for him not so much ordeal.”
“Yes, and he’s happier, too,” said Eden.
“Sure,” replied Chan. He produced a platter of canned salmon. “All time in San Francisco I behold white men hot and excited. Life like a fever, always getting worse. What for? Where does it end? Same place as Chinese life, I think.”
When they had finished Eden attempted to help with the dishes, but was politely restrained. He sat down and turned on the radio. The strong voice of a leather-lunged announcer rang out in the quiet room.
“Now, folks, we got a real treat for you this balmy, typical California evening. Miss Norma Fitzgerald, of the One Night in June company now playing at the Mason, is going to sing—er—what are you going to sing, Norma? Norma says wait and find out.”
At mention of the girl’s name, Bob Eden called to the detective, who
