“Allee samee you?” He questioned, slyly.
“Allee samee me what?” demanded Sandy, suspiciously.
“Sing. You catchee him?”
“Do I sing, are you askin’?” roared the foreman. “Why you yaller heathen! Ain’t you just bin hearin’ me sing?”
Wing Chang’s grin intensified, and gradually Sandy’s own visage widened genially.
“Take your rise,” he said, “you sure got it out’n me then.... Look a’ here,” he added, “What you hangin’ round here stealin’ music lessons fer? Where you bin, anyway?”
“Bin talkee Bloome,” Chang said. “Him wantee coffee.”
“Broome! What in hell’s Broome doin’ round here this time o’ day?”
The sly look deepened in Chang’s face. His slant eyes narrowed, and lost their humorous twinkle.
“Say him sick,” he explained. “Think mebby Mistlee Westclott come bimeby.”