On Pell Street
By FRANK OWEN
Chinatown keeps to the old lanes—by the author of "The Purple Sea" and "The Wind That Tramps the World"
Sam Wong was in a particularly morose state that night because his beloved canary, Li Po, named after the most illustrious of Chinese poets, had died that morning. One last sweet song, then death. Li Po had trilled an anthem to the sun. He had died from excess emotion, from excess of beauty. Anyway that is how Sam Wong diagnosed his passing. His grief was extreme.
The fondness of Chinese for birds is traditional. In China it is no uncommon sight to see a rich man walking along the street, carrying a canary in a cage, taking the little songster out for a walk to enjoy the sunset. Sam Wong had always regretted that the custom of Manhattan precluded his walking about the streets with Li Po. To be sure there was nothing to prevent him doing so. But it would direct attention to him and he did not at that particular stage of his nefarious career care to be the target for the eyes of men. Better to be a shadow, for a shadow is indestructible, with nothing to dread or fear.
Now as he walked along the Bowery he beheld a thin wisp of a girl standing before a window. Her face was like old ivory, colorless. Her hair was burnished copper, and in her large dark eyes were all the sorrows of the world. Sam Wong sighed.
He was an ardent worshipper of aU beautiful things. He noticed that her hands were clenched so tightly, the nails of the fingers were white. Softly he glided over to her side.
"May I be forgiven for addressing you?" he whispered. "I do so at the risk of arousing your wrath. But I am only Sam Wong, a Chinese, with much money and yet poor, for tonight I am lonely. Accept my friendship until the moon rises. When one is sad, the moon, too, weeps. In its sympathy it is dependable. I wonder if you are hungry."
"Very hungry," she admitted. "All my life I've been hungry for something beyond my fingertips."
"Perhaps it is hunger of the heart."
While they talked, Sam Wong had led the way across the street and around the corner to an Oriental restaurant, the dim lights of which were soothing to the nerves.
"What do you wish?" he asked.
"Anything will do," she said listlessly.
"You are right," he agreed, "all effort is as useless as summer dust."
She sighed. "It is so quiet and peaceful."
"Don't talk," said he. "Rest. Forget that I am with you. Here is the tea. In Chinese restaurants they do not wait for one to order the liquor that does not intoxicate."
He filled a small cup, and placed it be-fore her. Then he spoke in subdued tones to the waiter, ordering chicken-mushroom soup, chow mein, roast young pork and a variety of almonds and condiment delicacies.
Then once more he turned to the girl. "Your name?"
"Just Barby."
