"And you have heard of no tlouble he is in?" Mr. Ting persisted.
Burroughs hesitated: it was his way to think before he spoke. He had heard only gossip about the card-playing that went on at Chia-ling Fu, and it seemed hardly fair to Errington to discuss his personal matters merely on hearsay. Mr. Ting, of course, was his friend; all the more reason, thought Burroughs, for not telling what Errington himself had evidently not told. But Mr. Ting seemed to divine what was passing in the boy's mind.
"I think you had better tell me all about it," he said quietly. "I have a good leason for asking: we are both his flends. Tlouble neglected becomes still more tloublesome, as we say. Tell me, then."
"The truth is," said Burroughs, won over by the Chinaman's evident sincerity, "Pidge and I have had a row. A ridiculous cause. He thought I doubted his honour; I lost my wool----"
"Your wool! I do not understand: is it not cotton?"
"My temper, I mean," said Burroughs, with a smile. "A silly thing to do, because you always say more than you mean."
"Ah yes! Anger is a little fire: if it is not checked, it burns down a lofty pile. Well?"
"We parted on bad terms, and haven't spoken since. He said he wouldn't have anything to do with me till I apologized."
"And the apology? You sent it in your letter?"
"No, I'm sorry to say I didn't. Idiotic pride on my part, for of course I never really doubted him; only after you've had a row it's jolly hard to say so--to a fellow like me, at any rate."