“Not this time, my wise Chink. Westcott’s homeward bound for Tucson just about now.”
“Whafor Mistlee Glad go away?” Wing Chang asked, ignoring the other’s statement.
“I d’ know, Chang.” The foreman whistled a few notes, meditatively. The Chinaman drew nearer.
“Whafor Bloome an’ Mistlee Westclott hatee him so?”
Sandy regarded him severely.
“See here, now, Chang,” he bluffed, “You think I’m a animated booktionary work, guaranteeded to fit all your ‘whatfors’ with ‘is whats’? Not on your life. Ain’t I told you your job ’s cookin’? You don’t have to break out no question-marks on this here rancho. Sabbee dat?”
Wing Chang returned his intent look without winking.
“Him two allee samee hatee Mistlee Glad,” he repeated. “Speakee ’bout him allee timee, behind corral. Allee timee say ‘dlamn’, an’ spit, so.” He illustrated on the desert.
“Heap you know,” the foreman said, still more severely: “you think you’re a blanked Pinkerton detective, don’t you? Well you ain’t. Your job ’s beans, an’ bull meat. You go makee him.”
He waved a hand in the direction of Chang’s official quarters, and the Chinaman’s perennial grin returned.