Then the
fish were spread upon matting to dry further.
"Ho'lah!" the Chinaman said to Jo.
"Ho'lah!" responded Jo, and the conversation ceased.
For a few minutes Jo watched two or three Chinese boys who were
lying on the beach, sifting the white sand through their fingers,
hunting for the small, white "rice shells," that American people
often buy.
Presently, Jo pulled a sketch-book out of his pocket, and began to
draw the collection of queer huts that composed the Chinese village.
By and by the Chinaman who had been tossing fish, Quang Po, sat down
on the rocks. He looked at Jo for a time, and then came and glanced
over Jo's shoulder, smiling. The Chinamen of the village were used
to having artists come and plant their easels here and there on the
rocks or at the entrance of the narrow street, and draw the village
on their canvas. At such times, a small group of Chinamen usually
gathered about each artist, and made in their own tongue comments on
the drawing. No artist knew the nature of the criticisms made in his
very ears.
Jo smiled over his own drawing, as Quang Po inspected it.
"Wha' fo' you do that?" inquired Quang Po, mustering his English.
"This drawing?" questioned Jo. "Oh, you see, my cousin is an artist
on one of the city papers. He's older than I am, and he earns a good
deal of money. I'm going to learn to make pictures for papers, too.
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