In the murky cellar of a Pell Street tenement seventeen Chinamen sat cross-legged in a circle round an octagonal teakwood table.  To an Occidental they would have appeared to differ in no detail except that of a varying degree of fatness.  An oil lamp flickered before a joss near by, and the place reeked with the odor of starch, sweat, tobacco, rice whisky and the incense that rose ceilingward in thin, shaking columns from two bowls of Tibetan soapstone.  An obese Chinaman with a walnutlike countenance in which cunning and melancholy were equally commingled was speaking monotonously through long, rat-tailed mustaches, while the others listened with impassive decorum.  It was a special meeting of the Hip Leong Tong, held in their private clubrooms at the Great Shanghai Tea Company, and conducted according to rule.

“Therefore,” said Wong Get, “as a matter of honor it is necessary that our brother be avenged and that no chances be taken.  A much too long time has already elapsed.  I have written the letter and will read it.”

He fumbled in his sleeve and drew forth a roll of brown paper covered with heavy Chinese characters unwinding it from a strip of bamboo.

  To the Honorable Members of the On Gee Tong:

Whereas it has pleased you to take the life of our beloved friend and relative Wah Sing, it is with greatest courtesy and the utmost regret that we inform you that it is necessary for us likewise to remove one of your esteemed society, and that we shall proceed thereto without delay.

Due warning being thus honorably given I subscribe
myself with profound appreciation,

For the Hip Leong Tong,
Wong get.

He ceased reading and there was a perfunctory grunt of approval from round the circle.  Then he turned to the official soothsayer and directed him to ascertain whether the time were propitious.  The latter tossed into the air a handful of painted ivory sticks, carefully studied their arrangement when fallen, and nodded gravely.

“The omens are favorable, O honorable one!”

“Then there is nothing left but the choice of our representatives,” continued Wong Get.  “Pass the fateful box, O Fong Hen.”

Fong Hen, a slender young Chinaman, the official slipper, or messenger, of the society, rose and, lifting a lacquered gold box from the table, passed it solemnly to each member.

“This time there will be four,” said Wong Get.

Each in turn averted his eyes and removed from the box a small sliver of ivory.  At the conclusion of the ceremony the four who had drawn red tokens rose.  Wong Get addressed them.

“Mock Hen, Mock Ding, Long Get, Sui Sing—­to you it is confided to avenge the murder of our brother Wah Sing.  Fail not in your purpose!”

And the four answered unemotionally:  “Those to whom it is confided will not fail.”

Then pivoting silently upon their heels they passed out of the cellar.