But
before putting him down I had the extremely bad
taste to cut off his pigtail and spike it to that beam
above his grave, where you may see it at this mo-
ment, or, preferably, when warmth has given you
leisure for observation.
'I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to
his death from natural causes? I had, of course, noth-
ing to do with that, and returned through no irresist-
ible attraction, or morbid fascination, but only be-
cause I had forgotten a pistol. That is clear to you,
is it not, sir?'
The visitor nodded gravely. He appeared to be a
man of few words, if any. Mr. Beeson continued:
'According to the Chinese faith, a man is like a
kite: he cannot go to heaven without a tail. Well, to
shorten this tedious story--which, however, I
thought it my duty to relate--on that night, while
I was here alone and thinking of anything but him,
that Chinaman came back for his pigtail.
'He did not get it.'
At this point Mr. Beeson relapsed into blank si-
lence. Perhaps he was fatigued by the unwonted
exercise of speaking; perhaps he had conjured up a
memory that demanded his undivided attention. The
wind was now fairly abroad, and the pines along
the mountainside sang with singular distinctness.
The narrator continued:
'You say you do not see much in that, and I must
confess I do not myself.
'But he keeps coming!'
There was another long silence, during which both
stared into the fire without the movement of a limb.
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