But Casey caught him by the collar. "Never mind, Feng. That chicken all same my tillikum, you savvy. Hiyu good chicken; lay hiyu egg. You catch more ice drink!"
And when the angry Celestial had gone he lay back in his chair, and laughed till he was weak. Sheila laughed, too, at first half-heartedly, then more heartily, and finally, as she reconstructed Feng's expression, in sheer abandonment of merriment, until she wiped her eyes and gasped for breath.
"Oh—oh!" she protested weakly; "my side hurts. I haven't had such a laugh for ages. Oh, Casey, that chicken all same my friend now, too. It's coming to her. That Chink—how mad he was! But what a mess! And claret stains so. Your rug——"
She rose, impelled by her housewifely instincts to do what she could, and, glancing through the door, she saw a man standing by the veranda steps.
This was Tom McHale, Casey's friend and foreman. He was lean with the flat-bellied leanness that comes of years of hard riding, and a but partially subdued devil of recklessness lurked in his steady hazel eyes. He was a wizard with animals, and he derived a large part of his nourishment from Virginia leaf. He and Sheila were the best of friends.
"Howdy, Miss Sheila!" he greeted her. "I sure thought there was hostiles in the house. What you doin' to that there Chink? He's cussin' scand'lous. Casey been up to some of his devilment?"
"Come in and join us, Tom," said Casey. "Feng had a run-in with Fluff. Result, one bottle of claret and two glasses gone to glory."
"Also one Chink on the warpath," McHale added. "If I was in the insurance business I wouldn't write no policy on that there hen. She's surely due to be soup flavourin'. She ain't got no more show than if the Oriental was a coon. He's talkin' now 'bout goin' back to China."
"He always does when he gets a grouch. I wish I could get a white man."
"A white man that can cook hates to stay sober long enough to build a bannock," said McHale. "Chink grub has one flavour, but it comes reg'lar, there's that about it."