Besides, the room is never cleaned, and all the mats are torn and cut at the
edges. The coffin has gone--gone to China again--with the old man and two
ounces of smoke inside it, in case he should want 'em on the way.
The Joss doesn't get so many sticks burnt under his nose as he used to; that's
a sign of ill-luck, as sure as Death. He's all brown, too, and no one ever
attends to him. That's the Memsahib's work, I know; because, when Tsin-ling
tried to burn gilt paper before him, she said it was a waste of money, and, if
he kept a stick burning very slowly, the Joss wouldn't know the difference. So
now we've got the sticks mixed with a lot of glue, and they take half-an-hour
longer to burn, and smell stinky. Let alone the smell of the room by itself. No
business can get on if they try that sort of thing.
The Joss doesn't like it. I can see that. Late at night, sometimes, he turns
all sorts of queer colors--blue and green and red--just as he used to do when
old Fung-Tching was alive; and he rolls his eyes and stamps his feet like a
devil.
I don't know why I don't leave the place and smoke quietly in a little room of
my own in the bazar. Most like, Tsin-ling would kill me if I went away--he
draws my sixty rupees now--and besides, it's so much trouble, and I've grown to
be very fond of the Gate.
Pages:
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806