“Red Mallet Six; easy to fix!” yelled the pasty-faced gambler, meaning he had to beat a throw of one and five.

“Ooooooooooooooohhh,” moaned the wind.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow!” howled the cat.

“Halfway to Heaven with the One-leg Seven, money-money-money!” yelled the gambler, who had just tossed one and six.

I slid farther along the ridgepole and cautiously tried my weight on a bamboo rafter. It held, and I took out a length of twine and began measuring the hole. Directly below me the ladies got their second wind, and I vaguely recalled that more than one sheltered mandarin was reputed to have been sent to his grave by accidental contact with the Yuan Pen songs of the great unwashed.

“Make your pile while you're young, dear, for beauty must flee, And middens greet maidens whose image you'll be; Wrinkled belly and breasts, features mottled and gray, Lurching lonely through nights while your nose lights the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

Another two or three jars of wine, I thought, and they should really loosen up. I didn't want to miss it.

“Oooooooooooooooohhh,” moaned the wind.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow!” howled the cat.

“Hear what I said?” the lucky gambler yelled. “It's the Tiger Head! Money-money-money!”

Faintly through the din I could hear the watchman crying the double hour of the rat. A new day had begun, and for some reason I automatically grabbed some nails, totaled them, added the numbers of the moon, day, and hour, and started one last Ta-shih reading. I rapidly counted across the upper six joints of the three middle fingers of my left hand, and stared in disbelief as my counting finger came to a stop on the deadly sixth joint.