I looked at the little saucers placed before us, in which, neatly divided, were little appetising-looking brown heaps, covered with rich gravy, and smelling uncommonly nice.
“What’s this?” said Barkins, turning his over with the chopsticks.
“Velly good,” said Ching, smiling, and making a beginning.
“Yes; don’t smell bad,” said Smith. “I know: it’s quails. There’s lots of quail in China. ’Licious!”
I had a little bit of the white meat and brown gravy, which I had separated from a tiny bone with the chopsticks, and was congratulating myself on my cleverness, when it dropped back into my saucer, for Ching, with his mouth full, said quietly—
“No, not lit’ bird—lat.”
“What’s lat?” said Barkins suspiciously.
“No lat,” said Ching smiling; “lat.”
“Well, I said lat. What is lat?”
Smith put down his chopsticks. I had already laid down mine.