“Wun Lung!”
No answer, save the whack, whack, whack of the tormented dough.
“Ahem. I say, John!”
Whack, whack.
“Wun Lung, where’s your mistress?”
“Dlaily.”
“Indeed? I fancy your hand is better. I’m glad of it. That bread ought to be fine. At your leisure, kindly point the direction of the ‘dlaily,’ will you?”
One yellow, floury hand was lifted and extended eastward, but as this signified nothing definite to the stranger he continued his inquiries.
“Where’s Pasqual?”
“Sclub.”