“I wonder if we’ll see Wun Sing’s hen!” said Monty again.
“Stark! I tell you if you mention that fowl again I’ll stuff her down your throat!” cried Herbert, dropping his jew’s-harp and engaging with Monty. But the latter was round and easily slipped through Bert’s fingers, and the scrimmage was playful, anyway.
Resuming their march they entered the great kitchen, now wholly deserted save by the Chinaman, who cowered in a corner, praying lustily to his honorable forefathers and burning some sort of stuff before a little image on the floor beside him. Like a good many others of his race, Wun Sing was “good Chlistian” when it suited him to be, but a much better devotee of his ancient gods when real trouble overtook him.
Wun Sing was in trouble now. Bottomless trouble, he feared, and so wholly engaged in his devotions that he didn’t take any notice of the noisy youngsters foraging his stores. Until, from the corner of his eye, he saw Alfy poking into a little wall-cupboard that was his own property and used to shelter his dearest treasures.
“No, no, Missee Alfaletta! No, no. Wun Sing’s chalm no wolkee if lill gels meddle!”
He rose from his prostration on the floor and fairly flew to the girl’s side, pushing her hand aside from the key she had almost turned, his whole manner expressing great agitation.
Of course, she desisted at once, even apologized for her action, but her old co-worker in Mrs. Calvert’s kitchen begged pardon in his own turn and after his foreign fashion. In his broken English he eagerly explained that he and his belongings had been bewitched.
His hen—the so beloved hen of Wun Sing, that he had brought from far away California, along with some garden seeds and roots, the hen had been entered by an evil spirit and the days of Wun Sing were numbered. Already he felt the dread sickness stealing over him, as it had already stolen upon his old neighbor of San Diego—the so afflicted Mateo. He had been praying and offering gifts to his little clay god but so far no good had come. Within the cupboard on the wall he had placed a “charm”—a terrible charm, in his opinion and if that failed not only he but all at San Leon were doomed. Would that he had never heard of the place, even for the extra big wages the rich owner had offered. He—
When he had reached this point, Alfy shook him demanding:
“What makes you such a fool, Wunny? That little old image on the floor is enough to make you sick, course, it’s so filthy dirty. I hope you’ll scrub your hands good with soap before you touch any food for other folks to eat. What’s the matter with the hen, anyway?”