It's not much to look at. Not what it was in the old
man's time, but I couldn't leave it. I've seen so many come in and out. And
I've seen so many die here on the mats that I should be afraid of dying in the
open now. I've seen some things that people would call strange enough; but
nothing is strange when you're on the Black Smoke, except the Black Smoke. And
if it was, it wouldn't matter.
Fung-Tching used to be very particular about his people, and never got in any
one who'd give trouble by dying messy and such. But the nephew isn't half so
careful. He tells everywhere that he keeps a "first-chop" house. Never tries to
get men in quietly, and make them comfortable like Fung-Tching did. That's why
the Gate is getting a little bit more known than it used to be. Among the
niggers of course. The nephew daren't get a white, or, for matter of that, a
mixed skin into the place. He has to keep us three of course--me and the
Memsahib and the other Eurasian. We're fixtures.
But he wouldn't give us credit for a pipeful--not for anything.
One of these days, I hope, I shall die in the Gate. The Persian and the Madras
man are terrible shaky now. They've got a boy to light their pipes for them. I
always do that myself.
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