Evening Star Newspaper, August 8, 1937, Page 72

SVIeTim i 0-LING was a conscientious Boy Scout. He liked to do his daily good deed as early as possible in the morning, as that left him the rest of the day free to amuse himself in his own fashion. Old Sol had barely poked his head over the roof tops on this June morning as Ho-Ling stole quietly down the creaky stairs of the tenement on Mott Street. In his pocket, wrapped in a soiled newspaper, was a piece of fish he had saved from last night’s supper. Ho-Ling meant this for Meu, the Homeless One. Meu was a cat; a stray, common alley cat, scrawny and thin, who eniffed persistently and longingly at garbage cans, and scratched for a living with the odds pitted against him. Hc-Ling wanted to be friendly with Meu. This forlorn animal appealed to his finer Boy Soout instincts, and once he had won Meu's confidence, the day would come when he could entice him into his home, cage this wild creature, and have him for a pet. And then Meu'would become sleek and fat, would purr pleasantly, and enliven Ho-Ling’s life with his pleasing sounds. “Meu, Meu!” cried Ho-Ling softly as he started peering into doorways and behind ash-cans. Finally in front of the Wah Chong Com- pany, importers of spices and teas, Ho-Ling saw Meu. Meu also saw Ho-Ling, and despite the tenderness with which Ho-Ling held the fish in: his stubby hand and tempted him with soft calls, Meu was wise in the ways of the ~world. His was the sophisticated wisdom of the alley cat who knew what small boys did to torment lonely cats. And how was he to know that this Chinese boy had love in his heart instead of carefully planned tortures? He didn’t even sniff at the fish, but scampered down the dark passageway between the two “Meu? Meu?” cried Ho-Ling flying after him. Crawling past the crates and boxes of the Wah Chong Company, he followed Meu to the silent and deserted court in the rear of It was dark back here, with only a tortured ray of sunshine seeping between the build- THIS WEEK UMBER 5 If you came face to face with Public Enemy Number One — what would you do? by CARL GLICK ings to cast a thin, pale light on the stones. As Ho-Ling made his appearance and Meu scampered for the nearest dark steps, a man half in the shadows drew back quickly. But he was not quick enough for Meu and the pursuing Ho-Ling. Between the legs of the man Meu made a dash for liberty down the cellar steps. Ho-Ling suddenly felt a strong hand grip his shoulders. He tried to squirm free, but the grip did not weaken. “What you doin’ here?”” the man snapped. Ho-Ling did not like the sound of his voice. It was hard and metallic with a biting rasp. He glanced up at the man’s face. This was no more pleasing to Ho-Ling than his voice. An ugly scar ran across his right cheek. His small eyes were cold and insistent. And his mouth was cruel. Ho-Ling stood quite still. He knew better than to struggle and try to free himself. The grip of the man’s hand on his shoulder indi- cated a brutal strength. Then, too, he was suddenly afraid, for the one look he had had of- the man’s face brought to his mind a too vivid memory. He wasn’t positive, and he would have to be safe again on Mott Street to be cer- tain. But yesterday, in a tabloid newspaper he had been reading, Ho-Ling had seen a pic- ture of this month’s Public Enemy Number One. This might not be the same man, but the resemblance was close enough to strike terror to his heart. Ho-Ling was not a stupid boy. He was in Grade Six-B at the American school, and stood near the head of his class. But under the present circumstances, Ho-Ling, with the wis- dom of his ancestors, felt the necessity of ap- pearing quite dumb. And although there was turmoil in his heart, his face did not betray his emotions. ‘“What you doin’ here?”’ the man repeated, giving him a rough push against the wall. And when Ho-Ling made no answer he added, “WHAT ARE YOU DOIN’ HERE?" AND WHEN HO-LING MADE NO AN- SWER, HE SAID: ‘*‘JUST A DUMB CHINK KID" “Just a2 dumb Chink kid."” ‘At that moment, Meu, evidently not finding the basement to his fancy, started to creep away to the larger freedom of the court and Mott Street be- yond. He brushed against the legs of the man, who drew back with a startled curse, and then aimed a vicious kick at Meur His heavy shoe caught Meu squarely in the back, and the force of the blow knocked Meu against the iron door. Losing Lis hold on Ho-Ling, who stood silent with horror, the man seized the whimpering Meu by the tail and with a wide swing threw him the breadth of the small court. Meu with a thud hit the brick wall and then fell in a heap on the stone pavement. A short scream of pain, a twitching of his body, and then Meu was still. The man laughed shrilly. ‘I hate cats,” he said. “That’s the way to handle 'em — huh, kid?”’ Ho-Ling didn’t want to display his real feelings. So he did as the man had done, laughed. But it was a mirthless laugh. “We understand each other,"”’ said the man. *I like kids who show guts. Too bad I spoiled your fun. Going to tie a can to the cat’s tail, huh?” The piece of fish slipped from Ho-Ling’s fingers. He made no answer but stared at the lifeless body of poor Meu. The man looked up at the windows. No- body was peering down into the court. No- body ever did, anyway. There was nothing to see. Then he turned to Ho-Ling. “Good kid,” he said. “‘Speak American?" “Maybe,” murmured Ho-Ling, modestly. “Got smokey on you?” asked the man, be- lieving that pidgin English might be better understood. He illustrated what he meant. This was a terrible insult to Ho-Ling’s in- telligence, so he shook his head, and main- tained a dignified silence. “No carry weeds, huh?” Then he pulled Ho-Ling into the shadows. “Want makee quarter?” He took some money from his pocket. “You trottee fattee legs to corner. Gettee me two packs smokes. See? Me — smokes. You — quarter. Get that rightee?” Ho-Ling nodded as if he understood. “And keepee mouthee shutee too. Get me?”’ Ho-Ling nodded again. He put his hands over his eyes, his ears, and his lips. He smiled and looked at the man questioningly. “That's the big idea. Like those monkeys you Chinks got. Don’t see nothin’, don’t say nothin’, don’t know nothin’. Get me paper, too.” He picked up the torn bit of newspaper Ho-Ling had used for the fish. ““‘One of those. Savvy?” Again Ho-Ling nodded in agreement. “You and me is pals — huh, kid?”” And he patted Ho-Ling on the shoulder as tenderly as he knew how. “Run errands for me — keep your trap closed — and it’s money for you.” “Okay,” said Ho-Ling. “Goodby.” Without even so much as a glance at Meu, he walked slowly out of the court and down the passageway. Here in the darkness he paused a moment. Poor Meu! He'd never purr with content- lllustrated by Jerome G. Rozen ment now, nor be sleek and fat. Ho-Ling wiped a tear from his eyes. He was glad nobody saw him do this. They might think him a crybaby. He made his way down Mott Street to the stand on the corner where he often bought * cigarettes for his elder brother. There news- papers could be purchased, too. But he had no intention of buying a tabloid, as they con- tained pictures. So he selected one he ha never seen before, one without pictures seemingly full of news. : When he got back to the court, the man was still there, hidden in the shadows. Ho-Ling handed him the things he had been sent for, and also all the loose change. “Givin’ me the change back? Never be a rich man that way, kid,” said the man with one of his short laughs. “Keep it.” “Thank you,” said Ho-Ling. “Okay by me. Now, listen, kid, and get this straight. Come back here tonight. Got an- other errand. Rap three times on the door 1il ¥ this — so I'll know it's you." Ho-Ling nodded. He held up seven fingers, then knocked three times, and grinned. ““That’s the berries. You and me work swell together.” Then the man withdrew into the basement and closed the iron door behind him. Ho-Ling was alone. He crossed swiftly to where the bruised body of poor Meu lay. “Meu? . . . Meu?” he whispered. Then he picked Meu up in his arms and trudged down the passageway. In a corner behind some boxes he laid the dead cat. There w be time later to give Meu decent burial. He then hurried to the Sugar Bowl on Pell Street, a restaurant where his elder brother, Foo Jung, often sat and read the papers and discussed the affairs of the day with his friends in the Chinese Athletic Club. Here yesterday = Foo Jung had been reading the tabloid, and Ho-Ling knew it had been put behind the counter for future reference in case some argu- ment arose over baseball scores. *“‘Can I see the funniesin yesterday’s paper?”’ he asked of Chin Wah Dook, one of the genial owners of the Sugar Bowl. Ordering a soda pop like a grown-up man,