I went to him, and asked what was wrong.
“Allee dleadful,” he said. “No cookee meat plopelly. No makee tea plopelly. Blead bad.”
“Why, I’m sure it isn’t,” I said, crumbling off a piece to taste.
“Yes; allee bad. No bake blead to-day. Blead high.”
“High?” I said; “you mean stale?”
“Yes; stale high. Keep blead too long. Not good to eat.”
“Why, Quong,” I cried; “you’re grumbling because somebody else cooked and baked,” and I burst out laughing.
The little fellow jumped up with his yellow forehead all wrinkles and his eyes flashing and twinkling comically with resentment. But as I still laughed at him, the creases began to disappear from his face, and the angry look to depart, till he too smiled up at me.
“You velly funny,” he said. “Laugh at me.”
“Well, you made me by grumbling for nothing.”