“Ching says he wants to get back to the fancee shop,” sad Smith one morning. “So do I, for I’m sick of this dreary work. Why, I’d rather have another of our days ashore.”
“Not you,” I said. “But I say, look here, I haven’t spoke about it before, but Ching says—hi, Tanner, come here!”
“That he doesn’t,” cried Smith.
“Hallo! what is it?” said Barkins, whom I had hailed, and he came over from the port side of the deck.
“I was going to tell Blacksmith what Ching says. You may as well hear too.”
“Don’t want to. I know.”
“What! has he been saying to you—”
“No, not again.”
“What did he say?”
“Ti-ope-I-ow!” cried Barkins, imitating the Chinaman’s high falsetto, and then striking imaginary strings of a guitar-like instrument. “Peng—peng-peng.”