Picking up the Pekinese, the stout old lady pressed it under her arm as though it were a bagpipe, and hurried on like a flustered goose.
Some minutes passed. A workman and his wife sat down beside him, and gazed at the Pagoda.
“Queer building!” said Late—299.
“Ah!” said the workman. “Japanese, they say!”
“Chinese, my friend. Good people, the Chinese—no regard for human life.”
“What’s that? Good—did you say?”
“Quite!”
“Eh?”
The workman’s wife peered round him.
“Come on, John! The sun gits in me eyes ’ere.”