They're no more alike than
you and me, as Mr. Wilton here can tell you, sor."
The difference between the two Chinese failed to impress me, but I was
mindful of my reputation as an old resident.
"Oh, yes; a very marked contrast," I said promptly, just as I would
have sworn that they were twins if Corson had suggested it.
"Very remarkable!" said Mr. Carter dubiously.
In and out we wound through the oriental city--the fairy-land that
stretched away, gay with lanterns and busy with strange crowds,
changing at times as we came nearer to a tawdry reality, cheap, dirty,
and heavy with odors. Here was a shop where ivory in delicate carvings,
bronze work that showed the patient handicraft and grotesque fancy of
the oriental artist, lay side by side with porcelains, fine and coarse,
decorated with the barbaric taste in form and color that rules the art
of the ancient empire. Beyond, were carved cabinets of ebony and
sandal-wood, rich brocades and soft silks and the proprietor sang the
praises of his wares and reduced his estimate of their value with each
step we took toward the door. Next the rich shop was a low den from
whose open door poured fumes of tobacco and opium, and in whose misty
depths figures of bloused little men huddled around tables and swayed
hither and thither. The click of dominoes, the rattling of sticks and
counters, and the excited cries of men, rose from the throng.
"They're the biggest gamblers the Ould Nick iver had to his hand," said
Corson; "there isn't one of 'em down there that wouldn't bet the coat
off his back.
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