“Aw, cut it out, Emma!” replied Mooney.  “That old stuff won’t go here.  Your Chink’s goin’ to the chair.  Murtha, look through the place while we put Mock in the wagon.  Hell!” he added under his breath.  “Won’t this make Peckham sick!”

* * * * *

Mr. Ephraim Tutt just finished his morning mail when he was informed that Mr. Wong Get desired an interview.  Though the old lawyer did not formally represent the Hip Leong Tong he was frequently retained by its individual members, who held him in high esteem, for they had always found him loyal to their interests and as much a stickler for honor as themselves.  Moreover, between him and Wong Get there existed a curious sympathy as if in some previous state of existence Wong Get might have been Mr. Tutt, and Mr. Tutt Wong Get.  Perhaps, however, it was merely because both were rather weary, sad and worldly wise.

Wong Get did not come alone.  He was accompanied by two other Hip Leongs, the three forming the law committee appointed to retain the best available counsel to defend Mock Hen.  In his expansive frock coat and bowler hat Wong might easily have excited mirth had it not been for the extreme dignity of his demeanor.  They were there, he stated, to request Mr. Tutt to protect the interests of Mock Hen, and they were prepared to pay a cash retainer and sign a written contract binding themselves to a balance—­so much if Mock should be convicted; so much if acquitted; so much if he should die in the course of the trial without having been either convicted or acquitted.  It was, said Wong Get gently, a matter of grave importance and they would be glad to give Mr. Tutt time to think it over and decide upon his terms.  Suppose, then, that they should return at noon?  With this understanding, accordingly, they departed.

“There’s no point in skinning a Chink just because he is a Chink,” said the junior Tutt when his partner had explained the situation to him.  “But it isn’t the highest-class practise and they ought to pay well.”

“What do you call well?” inquired Mr. Tutt.

“Oh, a thousand dollars down, a couple more if he’s convicted, and five altogether if he’s acquitted.”

“Do you think they can raise that amount of money?”

“I think so,” answered Tutt.  “It might be a good deal for an individual Chink to cough up on his own account, but this is a cooeperative affair.  Mock Hen didn’t kill Quong Lee to get anything out of it for himself, but to save the face of his society.”

“He didn’t kill him at all!” declared Mr. Tutt, hardly moving a muscle of his face.

“Well, you know what I mean!” said Tutt.

“He wasn’t there,” insisted Mr. Tutt.  “He was way over in Fulton Market buying a terrapin.”

“That is what, if I were district attorney, I should call a Mock Hen with a mockturtle defense!” grunted Tutt.

Mr. Tutt chuckled.

“I shall have to get that off myself at the beginning of the case, or it might convict him,” he remarked.  “But he wasn’t there—­unless the jury find that he was.”