be free of the dark hot shacks where they toiled all day long. A banner of crudely daubed characters was suddenly waved in Mr Hoâs face, forcing him to retreat a short distance. Raj watched in alarm as Mr Ho gasped and clutched at his chest, and in sudden concern stepped forward to face the angry men.
âListen to him,â Raj roared, and his unfamiliar presence had an instant effect. The workers stopped to stare at his short, burly frame, and the shouting died down. Mr Ho took advantage of the lull to put his case to the men.
âI am no different from you. We are all Chinese brothers. I am not an Imperialist. This is not the way to improve our lot,â Mr Ho wheezed with as much force as he could muster, but even as he spoke a loud heckling began, drummed up by the two most prominent agitators.
âFreedom is found in working hard and taking opportunities,â Mr Ho implored, but the shouting continued.
âDown with Imperialist exploitation! Demand better wages from the dog Ho. He eats pork and duck while we have no money for rice,â a young man shouted. Mr Ho gasped in shock at this new accusation and the cheers that it released.
âI am not a rich man. You have seen the mansions of rich men. You know I do not live like that. If you have complaints come and talk to me. Let us stop this nonsense and get back to work. The biscuits will burn.â Mr Ho panted, anxious now to get inside the factory for he knew only too well the smell of an over-baked biscuit. At this appeal the men hesitated, allowing Mr Ho to enter the shed. Raj hurried after him.
A fiery, vanilla-scented world enfolded them as they entered the darkness of the sweltering factory. Bare light bulbs dangling on long wires from the corrugated metal roof could not alleviate the gloom. After the brightness outside Raj was momentarily blinded, even as his head reeled with the intoxicating aromas. As sight returned he saw large cauldrons of boiling pineapple jam perched precariously over flaming burners. The syrup bubbled with soft sucking sounds; the scent of scalding sugar ran hotly through him. Long tables of rolled dough cut to the shape of hearts or rabbits were visible, as were battalions of chocolate fingers waiting their turn in the oven. Ancient conveyor belts that appeared to be fashioned from bicycle chains chugged and clanked incessantly around the shed. The angry men now encircled their employer shaking their fists and kicking up dust from the earthen floor that then fell upon the biscuits.
âBiscuits are burning,â Mr Ho cried in a trembling voice, stepping towards the ovens from which a charred smell was emerging. In desperation he pushed his way into the crowd before him, hitting out to right and left. His watch was knocked from his pocket and flailed about on its long chain, the straw hat was tipped forward and he reached to hold it in place. As he neared the ovens the agitators crowded closer chanting slogans again. A man brandishing a bamboo pole moved forward and, with a loud cry, brought the cane down on Mr Hoâs head. The boater fell apart as neatly as a cut sponge cake and blood spurted up from Mr Hoâs skull. At the sight of this blood the crowd abruptly fell silent and drew back. Mr Ho staggered and lurched, finally collapsing in the hot space before the oven.
Mrs Ho, who was hovering nervously about the factory door, gavea shriek and ran forward and dropped to her knees, cushioning her husbandâs head in her lap. Mr Hoâs crushed and battered boater lay a short distance away and Raj stared at the hat in shock, remembering the Chief Inspectorâs sun helmet in the road at Kreta Ayer. For the second time that day he had watched a man swatted like a fly by an angry mob.
The communist agitators began shouting again but Mr Hoâs workers, observing their injured employer, appeared confused. There was a sudden move towards the ovens and the doors were pulled open. Immediately, a
âListen to him,â Raj roared, and his unfamiliar presence had an instant effect. The workers stopped to stare at his short, burly frame, and the shouting died down. Mr Ho took advantage of the lull to put his case to the men.
âI am no different from you. We are all Chinese brothers. I am not an Imperialist. This is not the way to improve our lot,â Mr Ho wheezed with as much force as he could muster, but even as he spoke a loud heckling began, drummed up by the two most prominent agitators.
âFreedom is found in working hard and taking opportunities,â Mr Ho implored, but the shouting continued.
âDown with Imperialist exploitation! Demand better wages from the dog Ho. He eats pork and duck while we have no money for rice,â a young man shouted. Mr Ho gasped in shock at this new accusation and the cheers that it released.
âI am not a rich man. You have seen the mansions of rich men. You know I do not live like that. If you have complaints come and talk to me. Let us stop this nonsense and get back to work. The biscuits will burn.â Mr Ho panted, anxious now to get inside the factory for he knew only too well the smell of an over-baked biscuit. At this appeal the men hesitated, allowing Mr Ho to enter the shed. Raj hurried after him.
A fiery, vanilla-scented world enfolded them as they entered the darkness of the sweltering factory. Bare light bulbs dangling on long wires from the corrugated metal roof could not alleviate the gloom. After the brightness outside Raj was momentarily blinded, even as his head reeled with the intoxicating aromas. As sight returned he saw large cauldrons of boiling pineapple jam perched precariously over flaming burners. The syrup bubbled with soft sucking sounds; the scent of scalding sugar ran hotly through him. Long tables of rolled dough cut to the shape of hearts or rabbits were visible, as were battalions of chocolate fingers waiting their turn in the oven. Ancient conveyor belts that appeared to be fashioned from bicycle chains chugged and clanked incessantly around the shed. The angry men now encircled their employer shaking their fists and kicking up dust from the earthen floor that then fell upon the biscuits.
âBiscuits are burning,â Mr Ho cried in a trembling voice, stepping towards the ovens from which a charred smell was emerging. In desperation he pushed his way into the crowd before him, hitting out to right and left. His watch was knocked from his pocket and flailed about on its long chain, the straw hat was tipped forward and he reached to hold it in place. As he neared the ovens the agitators crowded closer chanting slogans again. A man brandishing a bamboo pole moved forward and, with a loud cry, brought the cane down on Mr Hoâs head. The boater fell apart as neatly as a cut sponge cake and blood spurted up from Mr Hoâs skull. At the sight of this blood the crowd abruptly fell silent and drew back. Mr Ho staggered and lurched, finally collapsing in the hot space before the oven.
Mrs Ho, who was hovering nervously about the factory door, gavea shriek and ran forward and dropped to her knees, cushioning her husbandâs head in her lap. Mr Hoâs crushed and battered boater lay a short distance away and Raj stared at the hat in shock, remembering the Chief Inspectorâs sun helmet in the road at Kreta Ayer. For the second time that day he had watched a man swatted like a fly by an angry mob.
The communist agitators began shouting again but Mr Hoâs workers, observing their injured employer, appeared confused. There was a sudden move towards the ovens and the doors were pulled open. Immediately, a
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