KAI LUNG'S GOLDEN HOURS
"Possibly," suggested the minstrel, "because my profession is a legally recognised one, and, moreover, under the direct protection of the exalted Mandarin Shen-y-ling."
"Profession!" retorted Wong Pao, stung by the reference to Shen-y-ling, for that powerful official's attitude was indeed the inner reason why he had not pushed violence to a keener edge against Kiau Sun, "an abject mendicancy, yielding two hands' grasp of copper cash a day on a stock composed of half-a-dozen threadbare odes."
"Compose me half-a-dozen better, and one hand-count of cash shall be apportioned to you each evening," suggested Sun.
"A handful of cash for my labour!" exclaimed the indignant Wong Pao. "Learn, puny wayfarer, that in a single day the profit of my various enterprises exceeds a hundred taels of silver."
"That is less than the achievement of my occupation," said Kiau Sun.
"Less!" repeated the merchant incredulously. "Can you, O boaster, display a single tael?"
"Doubtless I should be the possessor of thousands if I made use of the attributes of a merchant—three hands and two faces. But that was not the angle of my meaning: your labour only compels men to remember; mine enables them to forget."
Thus they continued to strive, each one contending for the pre-eminence of his own state, regardless of the sage warning: "In three moments a labourer will remove an obstructing rock, but three moons will pass without two wise men agreeing on the meaning of a vowel"; and doubtless they would have persisted in
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