“Ti—ope—I—ow!” he howled again, but as he gave forth his peculiar sounds he suddenly struck—purposely—a false, jarring note, lowered the instrument, seized one of the pegs as if in a passion, and began talking to me in a low, earnest voice, to the accompaniment of the string he tuned.
“Ching see now,”—peng, peng, peng—“bad men with swords,”—pang, peng—“look velly closs,”—pang, pong—“wantee fightee,”—pang, pang—“you no wantee fightee,”—pung, pung.
“No,” I whispered anxiously; “let’s go at once.”
“No takee notice,”—pang, peng, peng. “All flee, walkee walkee round one sidee house,”—pang, pong—“Ching go long other sidee,”—peng, peng. “No make, hully—walkee velly slow over lit’ blidge,”—ping, ping, ping, ping, pang, pang.
The little bridge was just behind us, and I grasped all he said—that we were to go slowly over the bridge and walk round the back of the house, while he would go round the front and meet us on the other side.
Bang, jangle, pang, pang, ping, ping, peng, peng, went the instrument, as Ching strummed away with all his might.
“Wait, Ching come show way,” he whispered. And as I saw that the mandarin’s men were coming nearer and evidently meant mischief, Ching raised his instrument again, and, after a preliminary flourish, began once more, to the delight of the crowd. My messmates and I slowly left our places and walked round the summer-house towards the little bridge over one of the gold-fish tanks, moving as deliberately as we could, while Ching’s voice rang out, “Ti—ope—I—ow!” as if nothing were the matter.
The little crowd was between us and the mandarin’s retainers, but it was hard work to appear cool and unconcerned. Above all, it took almost a superhuman effort to keep from looking back.
Smith could not resist the desire, and gave a sharp glance round.
“They’re coming after us,” he whispered. “We shall have to cut and run.”