The crowd surged round Angelo and bore him away, bewildered.  The judge and prosecutor hurried from the room.  Alone Mr. Tutt stood at the bar, trying to grasp the full meaning of what had occurred.

He no longer felt tired; he experienced an exultation such as he had never known before.  Some miracle had happened!  What was it?

Unexpectedly the lawyer felt a rough warm hand clasped over his own upon the rail and heard the voice of Mr. Walsh with its rich brogue saying:  “At first we couldn’t see that there was much to be said for your side of the case, Mr. Tutt; but when Oi stepped into the cathedral on me way down to court this morning and spied you prayin’ there for guidance I knew you wouldn’t be defendin’ him unless he was innocent, and so we decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Mock Hen and Mock Turtle

  “Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the
  twain shall meet.” 
                         —­Ballad of East and west.

  “But the law of the jungle is jungle law only, and the
  law of the pack is only for the pack.” 
                         —­Other sayings of Shere Khan.

A half turn from the clattering hubbub of Chatham Square and you are in Chinatown, slipping, within ten feet, through an invisible wall, from the glitter of the gin palace and the pawn-shop to the sinister shadows of irregular streets and blind alleys, where yellow men pad swiftly along greasy asphalt beneath windows glinting with ivory, bronze and lacquer; through which float the scents of aloes and of incense and all the subtle suggestion of the East.

No one better than the Chink himself realizes the commercial value of the taboo, the bizarre and the unclean.  Nightly the rubber-neck car swinging gayly with lanterns stops before the imitation joss house, the spurious opium joint and tortuous passage to the fake fan-tan and faro game, with a farewell call at Hong Joy Fah’s Oriental restaurant and the well-stocked novelty store of Wing, Hen & Co.  The visitors see what they expect to see, for the Chinaman always gives his public exactly what it wants.

But a dollar does not show you Chinatown.  To some the ivories will always be but crudely carven bone, the jades the potter’s sham, the musk and aloes the product of a soap factory, the joss but a cigar-store Indian, and the Oriental dainties of Hong Fah the scrappings of a Yankee grocery store.  Yet behind the shoddy tinsel of Doyers and Pell Streets, as behind Alice’s looking-glass, there is another Chinatown—­a strange, inhuman, Oriental world, not necessarily of trapdoors and stifled screams, but one moved by influences undreamed of in our banal philosophies.  Hearken then to the story of the avenging of Wah Sing.

  ’Tis a tale was undoubtedly true
  In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.