The Chinese Parrot (Charlie Chan Detective Series) — page 42: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a, Chan nodded. "Ah yes—the twelfth of February. New Year's Eve.” Presently he was back on the sidewalk, his keen eyes sparkling with excitement. He thought of the somnolent thoroughfares of Honolulu by night—Honolulu, where every one goes home at six, and stays there. How different here in this mainland city. The driver of a sightseeing bus approached him and also spoke of Chinatown. "Show you the old opium dens and the fan- tan joints," he promised, but after a closer look moved off and said no more of his spurious wares. At a little after eight, the detective from the islands left the friendly glow of Union Square and, drifting down into the darker stretches of Post Street, came presently to Grant Avenue. A loiterer on the corner directed him to the left, and he strolled on. In a few moments he came to a row of shops displaying cheap Oriental goods for the tourist eye. His pace quickened; he passed the church on the crest of the hill and moved on down into the real Chinatown. Here a spirit of carnival filled the air. The facade of every Tong House, outlined by hundreds of glowing incandescent lamps, shone in yellow splendor through the misty night. Throngs milled on the narrow sidewalks —white sightseers, dapper young Chinese lads in college-cut clothes escorting slant-eyed flappers attired in their best, older Chinese shuffling along on felt-clad feet, each secure in the knowledge that his debts were 42 comiicboeoe S CO