“Sounds as though he’d done something serious!” exclaimed Jerry. “Come on, fellows!”
Ned and Bob followed, the former murmuring:
“I hope he isn’t hurt!”
The scene the boys beheld as they turned the corner of the cabin, or “shack,” as Tinny called his place, was one at once to puzzle and alarm them. The Chinese cook was dancing around on one leg, much excited and still crying shrilly in his cracked tones. Scattered about were the remains of what seemed to be a campfire. Near this was a tripod kettle, and, off to one side, was a blackened and bent square tin can of about five gallon capacity.
“Shut up, Hang Gow!” ordered Tinny, not so much brutally as with well-intentioned meaning. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
“No hultie! No hultie!” jabbered the fellow. “Much nice blid-nest soup alle samme blow up! Oh, hi! Oh, hi! Oh, hi!”
He shouted this last at the very top of his voice, and the boys could not help laughing, for they saw that no great harm had been done. But they could not understand what had happened. However, Tinny seemed to understand for he laughed and said:
“Now, Hang Gow, you cut this out. I know you meant to give us a treat, but I’ve told you not to put gasoline on a fire to hurry it up. That’s what you did, didn’t you?”
“Mebby alle samme use li’l bit gamsoheen!”
“Um! I thought so! Well, we’ll do without your birds’-nest soup now, Hang Gow. It’s lucky you aren’t made into chop suey yourself. Now let this mess go and get the grub on the table!”