It began one pleasant afternoon when Luke and Neale were out riding through a beautiful country district in the automobile with Ruth and Agnes. Hal and Nalbro had gone to the railroad station to see about getting chair-car tickets for Boston, for the time for their return was drawing near.
Neale drove through a little country village and was preparing to suggest, since the afternoon was waning, that they turn about, when Luke uttered an exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Neale. “Did I run over a chicken?”
“No. But this has to do with something closely connected with chickens.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a Chinese—they’re very fond of chicken, you know. There goes one now—a Chinese, I mean!”
He pointed toward a small, ramshackle house standing alone in a field near the highway, just outside the village. And, as the others looked, they saw a Chinese enter this hut.
“Hop Wong!” cried Neale.
“I thought that’s who it was, but I didn’t want to be too certain,” remarked Luke. “So this is where Hop Wong has been hiding!”
“Come on! Let’s get hold of him and see if he’ll talk,” suggested Neale. He ran the car up close to the side of the road near the lonely hut and started to alight.