Can u give an 8 line summery?

Dont give up, its a nice story:


THE GATE OF A HUNDRED SORROWS.








"If I can attain Heaven for a pice, why should you be envious?"





Opium Smoker's Proverb.








This is no work of mine. My friend, Gabral Misquitta, the half-


caste, spoke it all, between moonset and morning, six weeks before


he died; and I took it down from his mouth as he answered my


questions so:--





It lies between the Copper-smith's Gully and the pipe-stem sellers'


quarter, within a hundred yards, too, as the crow flies, of the


Mosque of Wazir Khan. I don't mind telling any one this much, but I


defy him to find the Gate, however well he may think he knows the


City. You might even go through the very gully it stands in a


hundred times, and be none the wiser. We used to call the gully,


"the Gully of the Black Smoke," but its native name is altogether


different of course. A loaded donkey couldn't pass between the


walls; and, at one point, just before you reach the Gate, a bulged


house-front makes people go along all sideways.





It isn't really a gate though. It's a house. Old Fung-Tching had


it first five years ago. He was a boot-maker in Calcutta. They say


that he murdered his wife there when he was drunk. That was why he


dropped bazar-rum and took to the Black Smoke instead. Later on, he


came up north and opened the Gate as a house where you could get


your smoke in peace and quiet. Mind you, it was a pukka,


respectable opium-house, and not one of those stifling, sweltering


chandoo-khanas, that you can find all over the City. No; the old


man knew his business thoroughly, and he was most clean for a


Chinaman. He was a one-eyed little chap, not much more than five


feet high, and both his middle fingers were gone. All the same, he


was the handiest man at rolling black pills I have ever seen. Never


seemed to be touched by the Smoke, either; and what he took day and


night, night and day, was a caution. I've been at it five years,


and I can do my fair share of the Smoke with any one; but I was a


child to Fung-Tching that way. All the same, the old man was keen


on his money, very keen; and that's what I can't understand. I


heard he saved a good deal before he died, but his nephew has got


all that now; and the old man's gone back to China to be buried.





He kept the big upper room, where his best customers gathered, as


neat as a new pin. In one corner used to stand Fung-Tching's Joss--


almost as ugly as Fung-Tching--and there were always sticks burning


under his nose; but you never smelt 'em when the pipes were going


thick. Opposite the Joss was Fung-Tching's coffin. He had spent a


good deal of his savings on that, and whenever a new man came to the


Gate he was always introduced to it. It was lacquered black, with


red and gold writings on it, and I've heard that Fung-Tching brought


it out all the way from China. I don't know whether that's true or


not, but I know that, if I came first in the evening, I used to


spread my mat just at the foot of it. It was a quiet corner you


see, and a sort of breeze from the gully came in at the window now


and then. Besides the mats, there was no other furniture in the


room--only the coffin, and the old Joss all green and blue and


purple with age and polish.





Fung-Tching never told us why he called the place "The Gate of a


Hundred Sorrows." (He was the only Chinaman I know who used bad-


sounding fancy names. Most of them are flowery. As you'll see in


Calcutta.) We used to find that out for ourselves. Nothing grows


on you so much, if you're white, as the Black Smoke. A yellow man


is made different. Opium doesn't tell on him scarcely at all; but


white and black suffer a good deal. Of course, there are some


people that the Smoke doesn't touch any more than tobacco would at


first. They just doze a bit, as one would fall asleep naturally,


and next morning they are almost fit for work. Now, I was one of


that sort when I began, but I've been at it for five years pretty


steadily, and its different now. There was an old aunt of mine,


down Agra way, and she left me a little at her death. About sixty


rupees a month secured. Sixty isn't much. I can recollect a time,


seems hundreds and hundreds of years ago, that I was getting my


three hundred a month, and pickings, when I was working on a big


timber contract in Calcutta.





I didn't stick to that work for long. The Black Smoke does not


allow of much other business; and even though I am very little


affected by it, as men go, I couldn't do a day's work now to save my


life. After all, sixty rupees is what I want. When old Fung-Tching


was alive he used to draw the money for me, give me about half of it


to live on (I eat very little), and the rest he kept himself. I was


free of the Gate at any time of the day and night, and could smoke


and sleep there when I liked, so I didn't care. I know the old man


made a good thing out of it; but that's no matter. Nothing matters,


much to me; and, besides, the money always came fresh and fresh each


month.





There was ten of us met at the Gate when the place was first opened.


Me, and two Baboos from a Government Office somewhere in Anarkulli,


but they got the sack and couldn't pay (no man who has to work in


the daylight can do the Black Smoke for any length of time straight


on); a Chinaman that was Fung-Tching's nephew; a bazar-woman that


had got a lot of money somehow; an English loafer--Mac-Somebody I


think, but I have forgotten--that smoked heaps, but never seemed to


pay anything (they said he had saved Fung-Tching's life at some


trial in Calcutta when he was a barrister): another Eurasian, like


myself, from Madras; a half-caste woman, and a couple of men who


said they had come from the North. I think they must have been


Persians or Afghans or something. There are not more than five of


us living now, but we come regular. I don't know what happened to


the Baboos; but the bazar-woman she died after six months of the


Gate, and I think Fung-Tching took her bangles and nose-ring for


himself. But I'm not certain. The Englishman, he drank as well as


smoked, and he dropped off. One of the Persians got killed in a row


at night by the big well near the mosque a long time ago, and the


Police shut up the well, because they said it was full of foul air.


They found him dead at the bottom of it. So, you see, there is only


me, the Chinaman, the half-caste woman that we call the Memsahib


(she used to live with Fung-Tching), the other Eurasian, and one of


the Persians. The Memsahib looks very old now. I think she was a


young woman when the Gate was opened; but we are all old for the


matter of that. Hundreds and hundreds of years old. It is very


hard to keep count of time in the Gate, and besides, time doesn't


matter to me. I draw my sixty rupees fresh and fresh every month.


A very, very long while ago, when I used to be getting three hundred


and fifty rupees a month, and pickings, on a big timber-contract at


Calcutta, I had a wife of sorts. But she's dead now. People said


that I killed her by taking to the Black Smoke. Perhaps I did, but


it's so long since it doesn't matter. Sometimes when I first came


to the Gate, I used to feel sorry for it; but that's all over and


done with long ago, and I draw my sixty rupees fresh and fresh every


month, and am quite happy. Not DRUNK happy, you know, but always


quiet and soothed and contented.





How did I take to it? It began at Calcutta. I used to try it in my


own house, just to see what it was like. I never went very far, but


I think my wife must have died then. Anyhow, I found myself here,


and got to know Fung-Tching. I don't remember rightly how that came


about; but he told me of the Gate and I used to go there, and,


somehow, I have never got away from it since. Mind you, though, the


Gate was a respectable place in Fung-Tching's time where you could


be comfortable, and not at all like the chandoo-khanas where the


******* go. No; it was clean and quiet, and not crowded. Of


course, there were others beside us ten and the man; but we always


had a mat apiece with a wadded woollen head-piece, all covered with


black and red dragons and things; just like a coffin in the corner.





At the end of one's third pipe the dragons used to move about and


fight. I've watched 'em, many and many a night through. I used to


regulate my Smoke that way, and now it takes a dozen pipes to make


'em stir. Besides, they are all torn and dirty, like the mats, and


old Fung-Tching is dead. He died a couple of years ago, and gave me


the pipe I always use now--a silver one, with queer beasts crawling


up and down the receiver-bottle below the cup. Before that, I


think, I used a big bamboo stem with a copper cup, a very small one,


and a green jade mouthpiece. It was a little thicker than a


walking-stick stem, and smoked sweet, very sweet. The bamboo seemed


to suck up the smoke. Silver doesn't, and I've got to clean it out


now and then, that's a great deal of trouble, but I smoke it for the


old man's sake. He must have made a good thing out of me, but he


always gave me clean mats and pillows, and the best stuff you could


get anywhere.





When he died, his nephew Tsin-ling took up the Gate, and he called


it the "Temple of the Three Possessions;" but we old ones speak of


it as the "Hundred Sorrows," all the same. The nephew does things


very shabbily, and I think the Memsahib must help him. She lives


with him; same as she used to do with the old man. The two let in


all sorts of low people, ******* and all, and the Black Smoke isn't


as good as it used to be. I've found burnt bran in my pipe over and


over again. The old man would have died if that had happened in his


time. Besides, the room is never cleaned, and all the mats are torn


and cut at the edges. The coffin has gone--gone to China again--


with the old man and two ounces of smoke inside it, in case he


should want 'em on the way.





The Joss doesn't get so many sticks burnt under his nose as he used


to; that's a sign of ill-luck, as sure as Death. He's all brown,


too, and no one ever attends to him. That's the Memsahib's work, I


know; because, when Tsin-ling tried to burn gilt paper before him,


she said it was a waste of money, and, if he kept a stick burning


very slowly, the Joss wouldn't know the difference. So now we've


got the sticks mixed with a lot of glue, and they take half-an-hour


longer to burn, and smell stinky. Let alone the smell of the room


by itself. No business can get on if they try that sort of thing.


The Joss doesn't like it. I can see that. Late at night,


sometimes, he turns all sorts of queer colors--blue and green and


red--just as he used to do when old Fung-Tching was alive; and he


rolls his eyes and stamps his feet like a devil.





I don't know why I don't leave the place and smoke quietly in a


little room of my own in the bazar. Most like, Tsin-ling would kill


me if I went away--he draws my sixty rupees now--and besides, it's


so much trouble, and I've grown to be very fond of the Gate. It's


not much to look at. Not what it was in the old man's time, but I


couldn't leave it. I've seen so many come in and out. And I've


seen so many die here on the mats that I should be afraid of dying


in the open now. I've seen some things that people would call


strange enough; but nothing is strange when you're on the Black


Smoke, except the Black Smoke. And if it was, it wouldn't matter.


Fung-Tching used to be very particular about his people, and never


got in any one who'd give trouble by dying messy and such. But the


nephew isn't half so careful. He tells everywhere that he keeps a


"first-chop" house. Never tries to get men in quietly, and make


them comfortable like Fung-Tching did. That's why the Gate is


getting a little bit more known than it used to be. Among the


******* of course. The nephew daren't get a white, or, for matter


of that, a mixed skin into the place. He has to keep us three of


course--me and the Memsahib and the other Eurasian. We're fixtures.


But he wouldn't give us credit for a pipeful--not for anything.





One of these days, I hope, I shall die in the Gate. The Persian and


the Madras man are terrible shaky now. They've got a boy to light


their pipes for them. I always do that myself. Most like, I shall


see them carried out before me. I don't think I shall ever outlive


the Memsahib or Tsin-ling. Women last longer than men at the Black-


Smoke, and Tsin-ling has a deal of the old man's blood in him,


though he DOES smoke cheap stuff. The bazar-woman knew when she was


going two days before her time; and SHE died on a clean mat with a


nicely wadded pillow, and the old man hung up her pipe just above


the Joss. He was always fond of her, I fancy. But he took her


bangles just the same.





I should like to die like the bazar-woman--on a clean, cool mat with


a pipe of good stuff between my lips. When I feel I'm going, I


shall ask Tsin-ling for them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a


month, fresh and fresh, as long as he pleases, and watch the black


and red dragons have their last big fight together; and then . . . .





Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters much to me--only I wished


Tsin-ling wouldn't put bran into the Black Smoke.

Can u give an 8 line summery?
This is in the homework "HELP" section not give you the answer section


pulling from people on here is still plagerizing though not to the extent of copying a copywritten book but its still not right just do it your own damn self when your supposed to