In his spotless white, his pigtail wound round his head, his feet in
thick-soled Chinese slippers, he passed up the hall to the front door.
Another chandelier hung there but in this only one burner was lit. At
five in winter and at six in summer Fong lit this as he had done for the
last twenty-four years. No one, no matter what the argument, could make
him light it any earlier, any later, or turn the cock at a lesser or
greater angle.

The visitor was Mark Burrage, and seeing this Fong broke into smiles and
friendly greeting:

"Good evening, Mist Bullage--Glad see you, Mist Bullage. Fine night,
Mist Bullage."

Fong was an old man--just how old nobody knew. For thirty-five years he
had served the Alstons, had been George Alston's China boy in Virginia
City, and then followed him, faithful, silent, unquestioning to San
Francisco. There he had been the factotum of his "boss's" bachelor
establishment, and seen him through his brief period of married
happiness. On the day when Minnie Alston's coffin had passed through the
front door, he had carefully swept up the flower petals from the parlor
carpet, his brown face inscrutable, his heart bleeding for his boss.

Now his devotion was centered on the girls; "Miss Lolly and Miss Clist,"
he called them. He ruled them and looked out for their welfare--refused
to buy canvasbacks till they fell to the price he thought proper,
economized on the kitchen gas, gave them costly presents on the New Year,
and inquired into the character of every full-grown male who crossed
their threshold.