His folks
work in the rice fields. The littlest one's Kishatriya, which I call
him Kiyi on account of his solemnness. Seemed to me it ought to cheer
things up, to call him Kiyi. His folks died of cholera. He keeps
meditatin' all the time.
"Business," he says. "Oh! Fu Shan--Lum Shan. Why. Yes! Saleratus!"
He seemed to have trouble getting his mind to those long-past things.
I says, "Fu Shan introduced you to his brother, didn't he?"
"Why, Fu Shan gave me a letter. You remember that? Well, as I
recollect, it turned out this way. Lum Shan, he just says, 'All
light,' and lit out. All there was to it. He left me kind of
surprised. I thought, 'There must be some poison around here,' but
there wasn't. But it don't suit him. Then I looked up the title to
the temple. Old Lo Tsin had got it recorded in the English courts in
'53, when they annexed the town, and the title appeared to be good. I
investigated some more. There were twenty yellow monks teaching
school here. There's forty now. I got 'em in. But they appeared to
think Lum Shan, or me, was a sort financial manager, that managed
affairs mysterious. They said, 'Why should the holy be troubled? All
things are one.
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