The Mark of the Golden Dragon by Louis A. Meyer

shadows to the side.
    Words are murmured and Ganju leaves, and soon a joyous Ravi appears.
    "Memsahib!" he exclaims as he bounds over to me and plunks himself down into my lap.
    "Ravi!" I exclaim, very glad to see the little fellow. He, too, has been scrubbed up and dressed in what, while not quite as fine as the golden yellow and white dress that sits lightly on the Faber frame, is probably one of the finest things he's ever had on in his young life—soft white trousers and shirt with blue trimming about the neck. Satisfied as to his safety, I lose no time in getting some of the plum wine into my mouth and down my throat.
    Oh, Lord, that's good!
    "What have you been up to?" I ask of the lad.
    "Very unhappy man tied to chair. Ravi hopes he was able to help with the language. Man still alive when I left."
    "Umm, yes," says Charlie. "That little matter was resolved to my satisfaction."
    Sidrah glides gracefully down next to me as I lay into the feast that is spread before us. It all looks very good ... Well, most of it, anyway.
    "Wot's this, then?" I ask. If he likes the Cockney dialect, I'll pour it on thick for him, to be sure. I see that a pair of slender ivory sticks has been laid by my plate. Of course I am quite expert in the use of them from my time spent at Cheng Shih's table aboard the
Divine Wind,
and so I lift a piece of meat and elegantly aim it toward my open mouth.
    "That is breast of peacock. Very rare, and very delicate of flavor, don't you think?"
    "Mmm..." I say, as I stuff it in. I notice that several peacock feathers have been laid across the table. "It is good, but not all that different from common chicken."
    "Ah. One who is hard to please. Then try this..."
    I sit back. "Please, Sir ... No monkey ... nor dog..."
    "Oh, no, my suddenly squeamish one."
    "Nor cats..."
    "What do you think us to be?" he says, smiling that sly smile of his. "Here, my dear, have another delicacy. This is a hundred-year egg ... buried beneath rich soil for all that time, and unearthed just for your delectation."
    I look at the gray lump lying before me. Then I take up a piece and pop it into my mouth. It may be a delicacy, but—
    "It tastes like mud," I say, struggling to get the delicacy down my throat and not being very successful.
    "Hmmm..." says Charlie. "Obviously a plebeian palate. Try this, then." He claps his hands and a new dish appears. "It is bird's nest soup ... famous in all culinary circles."
    I am handed a bowl containing a whitish crusty thing.
    "What is this?"
    "The nest of the white swiftlet that builds its bower inside dark caves high on the limestone cliffs of Gomantong and Niah along the coast of Borneo. The white comes from the spittle of the male bird that works for over a month building the rigid nest. It is a very risky business for the persons who gather the nests in dark caves high up on the cliffs. Many die. But it is worth it, no?"
    Now the Jacky Faber belly is famous for its ability to digest just about anything, but...
    I take a sip ... taste ... and then declare that I'll stick with the peacock breasts, thank you, and please hold off on the nightingale tongues, but do pass the rice.
    Chopstick Charlie laughs and gives up on me.
    "Very well, let us dine on that which pleases us!" He claps his pudgy hands. "More plum wine for all! Yes, and some saki, too!"
    My crystal goblet is refilled and a new drink is poured—this in a delicate ceramic cup—and it is warm, and,
Yum,
it is very good, too. I was a little reluctant to taste it, having vowed to never drink spirits and all, but I am assured it is only rice wine, so what could it hurt? Still, I shall have to watch myself.
    The dinner being about over, I lean back, lazy as any cat, and stroke Ravi's black hair. He has eaten of the rice dishes and the vegetables, and he is now asleep, his head on my lap.
    "So," says Charlie. "You say that you are a person of business—that you own a shipping company in America. Hmm? So what do you advise poor old