r de
highrob, yo' sto'y vay intinesse, vay intinesse! I fink I go slip.' So
ole thlee was lie down to go slip, an' Chan Tow was tek his op' pipe
an' begin smoke opi'. Whatta you say--hurt de pipe?"

"Hit the pipe."

"Oh, yeh; hit pipe. I doan' spe'k Ingernish vay we'.

"Magistrate wet long tem. Bye-bye oneddy begin to snow, an' nen bye-bye
Chan Tow getta doan' know."

"Chan Tow got _don't know_?"

"Getta ole semma was died. Doan' know."

"Unconscious?"

"Yeh; uh-uh-coshious!" sneezes Fuey.

"Nen magistrate begin craw' 'long on his stoamch--inchy--inchy--cross
flaw--out daw. Nen run fas' he can towards Tsan Ran Foo.

"One mont' go by, an' magistrate sit up in his high chair in his court.
Befron him dissa woman an' her beau,--ole cover wif mark dissa bamboo
po',--an' dissa fadder-mudder-in-'aw, an' dissa highrob. Magistrate
say, vay slow--ole semma idol talk: '_Dissa--woman--her lover--are
convert--to behead--by hev dey heads cut off--till dey dead!_ What you
fink, woman?' Woman say: 'Yo' Excennency, I vay gnad to be behead wif
my de-ah lover. I vay satisfaction we behead begedder. Our spi'its
begedder habby fo'ever.' Nen she turn kiss her beau; but he too scare
to spe'k. An' bofe was tek out to behead--dissa woman ole tem to mek to
kiss her beau.

"Magistrate say to highrob: 'You know me? Who eata subbah wif you
sucha-sucha night?' Chan Tow say, 'O yo' Excennency, I doan' know who
was!' Magistrate say: 'I was dissa man. I glate t'anks faw you. Awso
dissa fadder-mudder-in-'aw dissa dead man. Gaw sen' me to yo' house to
mek you instlument to convert dissa mudderers. I give you good
position; awso money."

"And that was how these criminals were _converted_?" I say, remembering
the promise of the story.

"Yeh; convert to behead. Dissa case," concluded Fuey, "show how Gaw can
convert cliliman when he wish; show how Gaw is glate. I tay you China
peoples not heeffen. China 'ligion teach to try to affection one
anudder; respec' yo' parents; an' charity an' pure moral. If people do
right I fink he shall be saved."

VIII

THE INMOST LIGHT

Arthur Machen

I

One evening in autumn, when the deformities of London were veiled in
faint, blue mist and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemed
splendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street,
drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyes
were downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as he
passed