"Here you, boys," he shouted after the Chinamen, "come down into my cabin, I want to speak to you."
He led the way down into his tiny wardroom and threw himself into a wicker chair placed at the focus of two electric fans. The thermometer registered ninety degrees Fahrenheit, but it was almost as hot on deck as below, and below various thirst alleviators were at hand. He poured out a whisky and soda and beckoned to the Chinamen to draw nearer. The first was short, fat, and jovial, with chronic humor creases about his mouth, and his hair done in a long orthodox cue which hung almost to the heels of his felt slippers. The other, the Shan-si man, was tall and square-shouldered, and he carried his chin high and his arms folded in front of him. His cue was curled flat on his head, and on his face was the expression of him who walks with the immortal gods.
"What's your name?" asked the boy, waving the Manila cheroot he was lighting at the fat Chinaman. The little man grinned instantly, his face breaking into stereotyped wrinkles like an alligator-skin wallet.
"Me—Yen. Charley Yen. Me belong good fella," he added with confidence. "Mucha laugh."
"Who's the other chap?" inquired the boy. "He no mucha laugh, eh?"
Yen shrugged his shoulders and, looking straight in front of him, held voluble discourse with his comrade.
"He no say," he finally replied. "He velly ploud. He say his ancestors belong number one men before Uncle Sam maka live. He say it maka no diffence. You maka pay, he maka show. Name no matter."
"Well, I'm sort of proud myself," remarked the boy, hiding a smile by sucking on his cheroot. "Tell this learned one that I know just how he feels. Tell him I'm going to call him 'Mr. Dooley' after the most learned man in America."
Yen addressed a few remarks to the Shan-si man who murmured something in reply.
"He tanka you."