"Yes, five hundred. It's the tax for Chinamen. If you want to come to Canada you must pay five hundred dollars." The officer took out his pipe and searched his pockets for matches. "Do you have it?"

"Five hundred?" said Wang Lee.

"Yes," said the man, impatiently. "For the tax. Do you have it?"

Wang Lee closed his eyes. He reached inside his jacket and felt his thin wallet. He shook his head. "No. No, five hundred."

"Then you cannot come into Canada," said the officer, lighting his pipe. He handed back the papers.

Wang Lee took the papers and looked at them.

"Without the five hundred dollars you cannot be admitted," said the officer. "Didn't you know?"

"No," said Wang Lee.

"It's the law," said the officer getting up from his desk. "You must go back to Newfoundland."

Wang Lee wanted to argue his case. His throat felt tight and dry. He tried to speak. But the immigration officer had already opened the door. No words would come.

The next morning Wang Lee found himself once more on the grey North Atlantic. The weather was even rougher than before. There were high seas and biting winds. The trip to Newfoundland took a long time. When the S.S. Bruce docked in Port aux Basques, Wang Lee again waited until most of the other passengers had left. When he stepped ashore he saw three men. They were smoking. Their hands were buried deep in their overcoat pockets. Wang Lee knew they wanted to talk to him. He stopped and looked at the men.

One of the men looked a lot like the immigration officer in North Sydney. The other two were policemen. They motioned for Wang Lee to follow them. They led him to a small building, not much bigger than a shed. As the shouts of dock workers came through the thin walls, the Newfoundland immigration officer looked at Wang Lee. He opened a file.

"If you want to enter the colony of Newfoundland you must pay a tax of three hundred dollars," he said.

"What?" said Wang Lee.

"It's the law," said the officer. "A new law."