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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,
