Griswold shook his head.
“That ‘every-man-for-himself’ talk aint the law we know, Toy.”
The Chinaman reiterated, in monotone:
“You go, I think.”
“You heard what I said.”
“You take my watch, give him Chiny Charley. He savvy my grandson, the little Sun Loon. Tell Chiny Charley he write the bank in Spokane for send money to Chiny to pay on lice lanch. Tell Chiny Charley—he savvy all. I stay here. You come back—all light. You no come back—all light. I no care. You go now.” He lay down. The matter was quite settled in Toy’s mind.
While Sprudell stamped around trying to get feeling into his numb feet and making his preparations to leave, Uncle Bill lay still. He knew that Toy was sincere in urging him to go, and finally he said:
“I’ll take you at your word, Toy; I’ll make the break. If there’s nobody in the cabin, I don’t believe I’ll have the strength to waller back alone; but if there is, we’ll get some grub together and come as soon as we can start. I’ll do my best.”
The glimmer of a smile lighted old Toy’s broad, Mongolian face when Griswold was ready to go, and he laid his chiefest treasure in Griswold’s hand.
“For the little Sun Loon.” His oblique, black eyes softened with affectionate pride. “Plitty fine kid, Bill, hiyu wawa.”