The Chinese—it was Hop Wong beyond doubt—heard the noise of the brakes and turned. With a yell he fled around the rear of the hut.
“Come on, Luke!” cried Neale. “Let’s capture him and see if we can get to the bottom of this!”
CHAPTER XXI
A QUEER STORY
Hop Wong was the very personification of fear. He was a small Chinese at best, but now he appeared no larger than a child, so much did he shrink within his garments when he found himself in the grasp of the two young men.
“Oh, the poor fellow!” murmured Ruth, with ready sympathy. “Be kind to him!”
Hop Wong heard her and held out his queer hands with their rather long nails—hands abnormally clean from much dabbling in soap, water and whatever chemicals the Chinese laundrymen use for making clothes white.
“Missie Luth, Hop Wong—he no did do!” he wailed. “He no did do!”
“We know you didn’t do anything,” said Ruth kindly. “Oh, don’t hold him so tightly, Luke.”
“He’s a slippery beggar, Ruth, and——”
“Oh, he won’t run away, I’m sure. Will you, Hop Wong?” she asked.