Chapter 2

She didn’t see many of them. They fled for their lives, Chang See
among them. His witnesses knew this. They knew that the little old
lady was sitting waiting in the midst of her web at Peking–waiting and
hoping for the return of Chang See. They knew that the dear old thing
had virtually promised to have a man ready with a basket to catch Chang
See’s head as it fell. Overcome with fear for themselves, for their
people at home, they became foggy of mind, uncertain of names and
dates. And Chang See’s case went to smash on the rock of their
indifference.

It is not surprising, therefore, that the inspector of immigration was
not convinced of the petitioner’s identity. Following the usual
formula, Harry Childs appealed the case to Washington.

The officials there, with unexpected promptness, agreed with the
inspector, and Chang See was driven to his last resort. He besought
the district court in Honolulu for a writ; and on a certain morning in
December, ’98–as a matter of fact it must have been Chang See’s
birthday, provided he was Chang See–he stood awaiting the decision of
the judge.

I can picture that scene in court for you, partly from the records,
partly from the story of one who was there and remembers. Judge Smith
was presiding; “H. Smith,” he has it in the yellow book, with the
modesty required of judges by custom. He was a big, blond,
cool-looking man with a rather peevish manner not uncommon among whites
in a tropic country. He sat idly thumbing the pages of his decision.
There were a good many of them, he noticed. The languid hour of noon
was approaching, and through his mind flashed a vision of his lanai,
close by the white breakers at Waikiki. An easy-chair and magazines
just in from the mainland awaited him there; also bottles, glasses and
ice, all of which were capable of being brought into delightful touch
with one another by an able Chinaman who had not been excluded.

H. Smith took a sip from a glass at his elbow–indubitably water–and
began to read. He had, he said, studied with great diligence the
petition submitted by counsel, which, he added with a disapproving
glance at Harry Childs, was unnecessarily long and involved. The
petitioner, as he understood it, based his application for a right to
land on the assertion that he was Chang See, born of Chinese parents in
Honolulu thirty years before, in a house near Queen Emma’s yard at
Waikiki. If the assertion were true, if the petitioner were Chang See,
then as an American citizen he must be granted all he sought. But was
this petitioner Chang See? The matter was clouded by grave doubts.
Pass over the fact that he had waited more than twenty-nine years
before asking for his birth certificate. Pass over as well the fact
that the man who had obtained the certificate had later, by his
testimony, appeared uncertain of the name of Chang See’s father. Turn
to the testimony of the petitioner’s other witnesses.

He analyzed that testimony. He tore it to shreds. All at once he was
reminded of the case _in re_ Wang Chi-tung, 3 U.S. District Court,
Hawaii 601-610. He was reminded of other anecdotes of a like nature.
His voice droned on and on. The clerk of court fumbled sleepily at his
watch fob and scowled at Chang See, the petitioner. All this time
wasted on a Chinaman!

H. Smith grew more genial when he came to the final page of his
decision. After all, it had not taken so long as he expected. Summing
it all up, quoting a few more authorities, he admitted at last that he
shared the doubts of the inspector and the officials at Washington. He
therefore, he added quite pleasantly, remanded the petitioner into the
custody of the inspector of immigration for deportation to China.

The petitioner was a student who understood many languages, and he
needed no interpreter to translate for him the words of H. Smith. He
heard them, however, without so much as the flicker of an eyelash. We
know now that he was Chang See. There was no justice in the world for
him that day; but no one could have read his despair in his face.
Harry Childs, on the other hand, was not a nerveless Oriental. His
tobacco heart ablaze with anger, the lawyer leaped to his feet. He did
a most unprofessional thing.

“With all due respect to the dignity of this court,” he cried, “I wish
to advise Your Honor that you have sentenced this man to his death.
Owing to his activities for reform in China there is a price on his
head there to-day. I wish to add–I wish to say”–he faltered under
the angry glare bent upon him by H. Smith–“I wish to repeat and
emphasize–you have sentenced this man to his death!”

Harry Childs had never been in high favor in that court, and if looks
could kill he would then and there have preceded his client into
eternity. Outwardly, however, the judicial calm was unruffled.

“The matter brought up by the learned counsel,” said the judge–and
legal verbiage sometimes lends itself admirably to sarcasm–“is not one
involved in the petition as presented. I need hardly add that I regard
it as a matter with which this court has no concern. The court is
adjourned.”

Chang See stood waiting not far from the judge’s bench. Into his eyes
had come an expression of amused contempt which might have annoyed the
learned judge had he seen it. But H. Smith was already on his way to
the cottage at Waikiki. He waited, did the Chinaman, until the
inspector came for him, and they started down the aisle together. It
was only a narrow path between the benches, but it was the beginning of
the road that must lead Chang See back to China and a most unpleasant
death. Yet he set out on it with his head held high and with a firm
brave step.

Did Chang See tread that path to its logical and bitter end? Did he
come in time to the edge of the web in the center of which the dowager
empress, spider-like, sat waiting? The story, as has been said,
stretches over twenty years, and the succeeding chapters may seem, at
first glance, irrelevant. But before we finish we shall be able to put
together the pieces of our Chinese puzzle and know the end of the path
that led at first between two rows of benches in a Honolulu court.

II

Twenty years later, toward the close of 1918, I stepped from the
gangplank of a China boat and for the first time in my life set foot in
San Francisco. If you have always thought of San Francisco as the
bonny merry city, the gay light-hearted city, I advise you not to enter
it first when it is wrapped in the gloom of a tule-fog. You will
suffer a sad disappointment, such as I knew on landing that dark
December afternoon.