“Sure thing,” said Joe. “See those fellows across the street. They’re evidently old friends and each one is shaking hands with himself.”
“You can’t dope out anything here,” said Jim. “When an American’s puzzled he scratches his head—the Chinaman scratches his foot. We wear black for mourning, they wear white. We pay the doctor when we’re sick——”
“If the doctor’s lucky,” interrupted Joe.
“They pay him only while they’re well. They figure that it’s to his interest then to keep them well. We think what few brains we have are 177 in our head. The Chinaman thinks they’re in the stomach. Whenever he gets off what he thinks is a good thing he pats his stomach in approval. We put a guest of honor on our right, the Chinaman puts him on his left.”
“Anything else?” asked Clara laughingly.
“Lots of things,” replied Joe. “And we’ll probably find them out before we go away.”
As they passed a corner they saw a man standing there, rigged out in a queer fashion. About him was what seemed to be a tree box, from which only his head protruded.
“Why is he going around that way?” asked Mabel, curiously.
“You wouldn’t care to know that,” said Joe, hurrying her along, but Mabel was not to be disposed of in so cavalier a fashion.
“But I do want to know,” she persisted.