“Great,” crowed Godfrey, slapping him on the shoulder. “I don’t want to feel in the way. I want to earn my board. And it’s not bad to keep on the right side of the cook. No one can beat me beating eggs.”
His spirits were infectious. “Not many eggs in this camp!” grinned MacLean.
“Lead me to the cook!” declaimed the newcomer. “Chin chin Chinaman!” he sang at a daring pitch. “Chin chin Chinaman, chop, chop, chop!” His voice had the world-adored quality, the vibrant stirring thrill which is never tremolo.
“He’ll do,” thought the youth. He foresaw concerts on the deck of the Delta.
That evening, the dinner was helped on its way by the best paid singer of England. In an apron, borrowed of Ling, he was “having the time of his life.” Ling, pretending to scold, had been won immediately. Rickard, hearing of the jolly advent, forgot his vexation, and immediately on his return made his way to the mesquit enclosure—to greet the friend of George MacLean.
It was a comic opera already to Godfrey. He had won over Ling by doing all of the tedious jobs. Had peeled the potatoes, opened the cans of tomatoes, washed the rice and scoured the pans. As Rickard, obscured by the mesquit hedge, reached the enclosure, the newcomer was entering by the riverside.
“Hi, there, you,” cried Ling. “Where you put my potato skins? Save potato skins. Me plant skins by liver, laise plenty potatoes—bimeby.”
Godfrey laughed uproariously. He pounced on a red slab of bacon rind and was making for the outside, Rickard vastly entertained.
“Hi, there,” yelled Ling. “Hi, stop. No thlow bacon away. Save bacon. Me make hot cakes, grease pan.”
“Not on your life,” Godfrey swept the irate Ling and the entering stranger in khaki a deep theatric bow. “Ling no get bacon. Me plant bacon by river. Me raise hogs!”