Directly opposite, and two stories above
their heads, a sort of huge "loggia," one blaze of gilding and
crude vermilions, opened in the gray cement of a crumbling facade,
like a sudden burst of flame. Gigantic pot-bellied lanterns of
red and gold swung from its ceiling, while along its railing stood
a row of pots--brass, ruddy bronze, and blue porcelain--from which
were growing red saffron, purple, pink, and golden tulips without
number. The air was vibrant with unfamiliar noises. From one of
the balconies near at hand, though unseen, a gong, a pipe, and
some kind of stringed instrument wailed and thundered in unison.
There was a vast shuffling of padded soles and a continuous
interchange of singsong monosyllables, high-pitched and staccato,
while from every hand rose the strange aromas of the East--
sandalwood, punk, incense, oil, and the smell of mysterious
cookery.
"Chinatown!" exclaimed Travis. "I hadn't the faintest idea we had
come up so far. Condy Rivers, do you know what time it is?" She
pointed a white kid finger through the doorway of a drug-store,
where, amid lacquer boxes and bronze urns of herbs and dried
seeds, a round Seth Thomas marked half-past two.
"And your lunch?" cried Condy. "Great heavens! I never thought."
"It's too late to get any at home. Never mind; I'll go somewhere
and have a cup of tea."
"Why not get a package of Chinese tea, now that you're down here,
and take it home with you?"
"Or drink it here.
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