“You catchum some of those nuts with the raisins inside for yourself—lichee.—But tell me first why you no like Hughes.”
The small, yellow, claw-like hand closed avidly over the coin.
“When Honorable Gleat Lord come, Mlistler Hughes say Fu Moy velly nice boy. When Honorable Lord no come, Mlistler Hughes kickee, stlikee, hurtee head, allee time say Fu Moy go hellee.” The little slippered foot shot out suggestively and he rubbed his ear in realistic fashion.
“The dirty hound, for abusing and cursing a little shaver, heathen or no!” Dennis exclaimed. “Who’s the honorable lord, youngster? Mr. Orbit?”
Again Fu Moy nodded and a look of adoration shone on the childish face.
“Can do!” His tone was fervid. “Honorable Lord Orblit velley gleat man, allee same Lord High Plince!”
“So that’s that! We know how he stands with the kid, all right,” McCarty interposed as Dennis started to speak again. But Fu Moy had evidently struck a congenial topic.
“Ching Lee catchum Mlistler Hughes make do.” He pulled up the sleeve of his embroidered silk jacket disclosing the fresh, livid marks of five thick fingers on his plump arm. “Ching Lee gettee knifee, can do!”
Fu Moy drew his hand across his throat and Dennis shuddered.
“For the love of the saints!”