"I suppose you're a Christian?" asked the boy, suddenly recollecting the object of his expedition.
"I belong Clistian, allasame you," answered Yen, assuming a quasi-devout expression. "Me believe foreign man joss allight."
The boy regarded him thoughtfully.
"Me b'lieve Chinee joss pigeon, too," added Yen cheerfully. "Me mucha b'lieve. B'lieve everyt'ing. Me good fun."
"Yes," said the boy, "how about 'Dooley'?—is he a Christian?"
Yen turned, but at his first liquid syllable the man from Shan-si drew himself up until it seemed that his shoulders would touch the cabin roof, and burst forth into a torrent of speech. Yen translated rapidly, scurrying along behind his sentences like a carriage dog beneath an axletree.
No, he was no Christian. The sword of Hung-hsui-chuen had slain his ancestors. Twenty millions of people had perished by the sword of the Taipings. The murderous cry of "Sha Yao"[1] had laid the land desolate. He was faithful to the gods of his ancestors.
[1] "Slay the Idolaters."
"Tell 'Dooley' I lika him. Say I think he's a good sport," said the boy, nodding at the Shan-si man.
"He say mucha tanks," translated Yen.