“Kettle nealy leady. Want tea?”
Gunson handed the tin to him, and the little yellow face lightened up as the cover was taken off.
“Melican tea? No. Good tea. Ah!”
There was a long, eager sniff taken, and then a look was given round.
“One, two, thlee,” said the little fellow, raising finger after finger as he counted. “One, two, thlee,” and he gave the tea a shake in the canister.
“Not enough,” said Gunson; “we like a good cup.”
“Hey? like good cup? Yes, plenty tea fo’ good cup,” and he took off the lid of the tin, and went and squatted down by the kettle, set the tea aside, ready for the boiling of the water, and so brought the bacon over the glowing embers slowly and carefully, using the point of his knife in place of a fork. That tea proved to be excellent, and the bacon so delicious that we felt kindly disposed toward the Chinaman as we ate it; and the more so that as soon as he saw us well started, in place of hanging about to be asked to join, he whetted his knife again, trotted off, and began to collect pine-needles, and cut down boughs of fir and spruce to pack together under the biggest tree for our bed.
“Here, what are you doing?” said Gunson. “Hey?” cried the little fellow, trotting up. “Doing! Want mo’ bacon—make blead. Blead gone high.”
“No, no. Sit down and have some tea.”
“By and by!” said the little fellow. “Cut much bed. Velly black dleckly; no see.”