Directly after luncheon was over the two went up-stairs into the study, without even the formality of an apology to me. As Leah was busy about her own work, I strolled out into the kitchen to see King. He was washing the dishes, and greeted me with his customary cryptic grin.
"Say, King," I said, "you got a joss in your room?"
His grin grew wider. "Yep!" he ejaculated, nodding.
"You no Christian, then? You not go to Sunday-school?"
"Aw, no good go to Sunday-school—I can talk Melican all light. Chlistian joss no good for Chinaman. You think so?"
"I guess you're right," I said. "But do you worship your joss? You burn punk-stick sometime? You trim him up with paper flowers, maybe?"
He laughed to himself as if it were a great joke, but kept on washing his dishes like a machine. "You likee see my joss?" he said, looking back over his shoulder. "Heap good joss—velly old. I bling him flom China."
"What d'you pray for, King?"
"Aw, sometime one thing, sometime other thing. I play for good luck, allee same Chlistian. You play, too?"
"Oh, sometimes," I said. "But go on, tell me, King. When do you pray? You pray to-day?"