he, come topside."

The messenger must have been waiting, however, at the stairhead; for no
sooner had the compradore withdrawn, than a singular little coolie
shuffled into the room. Lean and shriveled as an opium-smoker, he wore
loose clothes of dirty blue,--one trousers-leg rolled up. The brown
face, thin and comically small, wore a mask of inky shadow under a
wicker bowl hat. His eyes were cast down in a strange fashion, unlike
the bold, inquisitive peering of his countrymen,--the more strange, in
that he spoke harshly and abruptly, like a racer catching breath.

"I bring news." His dialect was the vilest and surliest form of the
colloquial "Clear Speech."--"One pair of ears, enough."

"You can speak and act more civilly," retorted Heywood, "or taste the
bamboo."

The man did not answer, or look up, or remove his varnished hat. Still
downcast and hang-dog, he sidled along the verge of the shadow, snatched
from the table the paper and a pencil, and choosing the darkest part of
the wall, began to write. The lamp stood between him and the company:
Heywood alone saw--and with a shock of amazement--that he did not print
vertically as with a brush, but scrawled horizontally. He tossed back
the paper, and dodged once more into the gloom.

The postscript ran in the same shaky hand:--

"Send way the others both."

"What!" cried the young master of the house; and then over his shoulder,
"Excuse us a moment--me, I should say."

He led the dwarfish coolie across the landing, to the deserted
dinner-table. The creature darted past him, blew out one candle, and
thrust the other behind a bottle, so that he stood in a wedge of shadow.

"Eng-lish speak I ver' badt," he whispered; and then with something
between gasp and chuckle, "but der _pak-wa_ goot, no? When der live
dependt, zo can mann--" He caught his breath, and trembled in a
strong seizure.

"Good?" whispered Heywood, staring. "Why, man, it's wonderful! You
_are_ a coolie"--Wutzler's conical wicker-hat ducked as from a blow. "I
beg your pardon. I mean, you're--"

The shrunken figure pulled itself together.

"You are right," he whispered, in the vernacular. "To-night I am a
coolie--all but the eyes. Therefore this hat."

Heywood stepped back to the door, and popped his head out. The dim hall
was empty.

"Go on," he said, returning. "What is your news?"

"Riots. They are coming. We are all marked for massacre. All day I ran
about the town, finding out. The tri