Before the Mexican woman could waddle after Ruth, Tom hailed her again. “Say!” he asked, “where can I find this Peters chap?”
“The Señor Flapjack?”
“Yes. Fine name, that,” he added in an undertone.
“He it is who is famous at making the American flapjack—si si!” said the woman. “But he is gone I tell you. I know not where. Maybe Lon, he can tell you when he come back with the beef—by goodness, yes!”
“But he lives here in town, doesn’t he? Hasn’t he a family?”
“Oh, sure! He’s got Min.”
“Who’s Min? A Chinaman?”
“Chink? Can you beat it?” ejaculated the woman, grinning broadly. “Min’s his daughter. See that house down there with the front painted yellow?”
“Yes,” admitted Tom, rather abashed.
“That’s where Flapjack, he live. Sure! And Min can tell you where he’s gone and how long he’ll be away.”