“Flishee! Flishee!” screamed the cook. “Kitchen full flishee! Hop Lung no knowee where flishee come! One flishee—two flishee—two flishee more—whole blame kitchen flishee!” spluttered the cook, his eyes rolling from one side to the other.
“Gracious me! is the man crazy?” asked Mrs. Rover, rising. “What does he mean by ‘flishee?’”
“Flishee! Flishee!” repeated Hop Lung. “No flishee—all flishee!”
“I can’t imagine what he’s driving at,” remarked Mrs. Powell. “Where is the trouble, Hop Lung? In the kitchen?”
“Les, Miz Plowell. Kitchen all flishee!”
Without ado the lady of the ranch marched into the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Rover. All the ladies could see were the freshly-caught fish resting on the cabinet shelf and the floor.
“I don’t see anything the matter here except that some of your fish are on the floor,” remarked Mrs. Powell calmly. “You had better pick them up and wash them off.”
“Did the boys catch those fish?” asked Mrs. Rover. “They said they were going fishing a couple of hours ago.”
“Boys clatchee one flishee,” announced Hop Lung. Then a sudden idea entered his head, and he made a quick leap to the yard door. He was just in time to see the boys trying to retreat, all laughing merrily.
“You foolee Hop Lung! You foolee Hop Lung!” he shrieked wildly, and of a sudden came back into the kitchen, scooped up several of the fish, and ran outside again. Wildly he threw one fish after another at the lads.