The Last Man Left Behind

A Chinaman arrived in town yesterday, presumably to attend court as a witness in the conspiracy cases. He rattled onto the wharf and asked to be directed to the residence of Sing Wah. He was told that Sing Wah and all the other unoffending gentlemen of the pigtail persuasion had become very much discouraged with the business outlook of Tacoma nearly two years ago and had risen up as one man and gone scattering down the railroad track. The stranger gave the name of Hang Li, or something like that, and walked up the steep incline to Pacific Avenue in a thoughtful way. At the head of the hill, he was greeted by several gentlemen, who interviewed him particularly. He drifted around to the courthouse, where they told him he was not wanted just yet; and then he drifted out to the street again—the only one of his kind in all the city. By this time, the gentlemen who had interviewed him at the top of the hill had been busy, and a committee was now appointed to watch him and see that he might not settle down when his duties at the court were done. The Chinaman moved about from one place to another all day, keeping on the sunny side of the streets and occasionally stopping at the corners, and as he rested, with the emphasis on his right leg, he would look over toward the great mountain rising far above his fellows in the east and seemed to compare notes as to which was the most lonesome.