Ben stared at his chum for a moment and then dropped down on the ground. His face was hard and set.
“That’s it!” he cried angrily. “That’s just it! The Chink ran our perfectly good gasoline into the ground and then sat down at our hospitable board. I only wish I had him here right by the pigtail!”
“In that case,” suggested Carl, “I don’t think he’d want another square meal in about three months. His greatest need would be a hospital.”
“There’s no doubt of that!” replied Ben. “Why, it was actually murder to do what that fellow did! I had an idea while he was eating that he didn’t act exactly like a man accustomed to eating with chopsticks. I’ve seen men at Sherry’s who didn’t have any better table manners than he had. That fellow was a fraud!”
While the boys were exclaiming over the loss of their gasoline and wondering how they were ever going to get the Bertha out of the position in which she now lay, Carl threw a cushion from one of the seats and sat down upon it, with the remark that it made the rock some softer.
Ben stepped forward and drew a folded slip of paper from the under side of the cushion and held it up.
“Did you leave that there?” he asked.
Carl shook his head wonderingly.
“Of course not,” he replied. “I don’t drop any letters in the post-office when I can communicate verbally with the man I want to advise with. Perhaps Jimmie or Kit left it there.”
“Well, the way to find out about it is to open it,” suggested Ben, “so here goes! There certainly isn’t much of it.”