"Clyde!" Simon repeated, in accents of incredulity. "Me savvy 'Clyde.' Him big man-horse hyas skookum man-horse. Him mammook plow, mammook haul wagon!"
"You hyas damfool Injun!" said his host politely. "Missee Clyde Chlistian gal's name, catchum in Chlistian Bible; all same Swede Annie, all same Spokane Sue, all same Po'tland Lily."
Simon digested this information with preternatural gravity. "Ya-as," said he. "Casey like Clyde?"
"Clyde likee Casey," Feng responded knowingly. "Casey call um woman fliend. Lats! All same big Melican bluff, makee me sick. Bimeby some time she makee mally him. Bimeby baby stop. Then me quit. Me go back to China."
The prophet's last words blurred in Clyde's ringing ears. The friendly darkness hid her flaming cheeks. Why, oh why, had she listened? She was not even shocked by Casey's muttered curse. She felt his hand on her arm, drawing her gently back into the deeper shadows. In silence she followed.
"I'll fire that infernal yellow scoundrel to-morrow," he growled.
"No, no, it was my own fault," she declared. "Absolutely and entirely my own. I—I——Oh, don't look at me, please!"
"I won't," he promised, but his voice shook slightly.
"You're laughing!" she accused him tragically.
"Indeed I'm not," he denied; but with the words came an involuntary sound strongly resembling a chuckle.