“How did that Chinese boy become a Boy Scout?”
“Is there a Chinese patrol?”
“Was he permitted to become a member of an American patrol?”
“Why is he mixed up with that disreputable old Chink?”
“Will he help me out of this hole, or will he ignore me?”
Of course there was not one of the questions the boy could answer, so he went back to his alcove and sat down, half believing that he had imagined the challenge.
As the day wore on the men who had been asleep in the inner chamber arose, staggeringly, as if still under the stupefying influence of opium, and made their trembling way outside. When they had all disappeared Chang pushed the rug aside so as to bring more light and air into the place and came and stood looking down on the boy.
Jimmie did not look up. He saw the shrunken figure up as far as the knees only. He was resolved not to open any conversation with the Chink. If he wanted to talk, Jimmie thought, let him choose his own subject and introduce it in his own way.
The yellow face of the Chinaman seemed to take on a more mask-like expression—or want of expression, rather—as the silence continued. When he spoke it was with a snarl which boded no good to the boy.
“Hungly?” he demanded.