There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Ah Cum was not a sailor, but he knew his water-front. “I’ve gotta go. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead.
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