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.