“No time now. Come along get good bleakfast. Wantee good bleakfast before go to see gland show.”
“Here, what is it you are going to take us to see, Ching?” cried Barkins—“all right; I wasn’t talking to you,” he added, as a couple of Chinamen turned round to gaze at the young outer barbarian.
“You waitee,” cried Ching, smiling; “all velly ploper gland. You likee see the show.”
“Oh, all right. Where’s the restaurant?”
“Nex’ stleet,” said Ching; and after a few minutes he turned into a showy-looking eating-house, where his blue silk gown and long nails seemed to command the most profound respect from the attendants; and where, after laying down the law very stringently to Ching, that we were to have neither dog, cat, nor rat, we resigned ourselves to our fate, and ate birds’-nest soup, shark-fin, and a variety of what Barkins called messes, with midshipmen appetites.
Ching smiled, and seemed to be very proud of our performance.
“You all eat dlink velly much,” he said, as we gave up, defeated. “You all velly quite full?” he said, rubbing his hands carefully, so as not to injure his long nails.
“Yes, full up, and the hatches battened down,” cried Barkins. “Now then, ask for the bill. How much apiece?”
Ching smiled and nodded his head.
“You come have bleakfast ’long o’ Ching. Ching velly glad to see you; Ching pay.”