“You likee music?” said Ching.
“Oh yes,” I replied dubiously, as I sat using the telescope, gazing right away over the lower part of the town at the winding river, with its crowds of craft.
“Why, he isn’t going to play, is he?” whispered Smith. “We don’t want to hear that. Let’s go out in the town.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” replied Barkins. “The sun’s too hot. I say, our dinner wasn’t such a very great success, was it?”
Smith shook his head, and just then Ching began to tune the instrument, screwing the pegs up and down, and producing the most lugubrious sounds, which somehow made me begin to think of home, and how strange it was to be sitting there in a place which seemed like part of a picture, listening to the Chinese guide.
I had forgotten the unpleasantry of the dinner in the beauty of the scene, for there were abundance of flowers, the sky was of a vivid blue, and the sun shone down brilliantly, and made the distant water of the river sparkle.
Close by there were the Chinese people coming and going in their strange costume; a busy hum came through the open windows; and I believe that in a few minutes I should have been asleep, if Ching had not awakened me by his vigorous onslaught upon the instrument, one of whose pegs refused to stay in exactly the right place as he kept on tuning.
Peng—feng—peng—pang—pacing—pang—peng—ping—pang—peng—paang.
Then a little more screwing up.
Peng, peng, pang—pong.