“No, he can’t for love or money. The Mexicans and Chinamen are all engaged for the season by this time. Besides, there’s the well not half done.”
Kirke bit his lip. He knew that this well was needed at once. He had seen for himself how Mr. Keith’s young orange-trees were turning yellow for want of proper irrigation. As they approached the Chinese quarter of the city, he broke the silence by remarking grimly,—
“I sha’n’t speak to Sing Wung. I want him to know I suspect him.”
“Do you suppose he’ll take the cue?” asked Paul, attempting his sister’s trick of punning.
Sing Wung was waiting for them at the door of his whitewashed cabin. He was dressed as usual in loose blue trousers and a frock of lighter blue denim, his long cue wound about his head in a coil and tied with narrow, indigo-colored ribbon.
“He has the blues awfully, hasn’t he?” whispered Kirke, not to be outdone by Paul in the play upon words.
“One of his relatives must have died,” was Paul’s low answer as he drew in the reins. “I’ve heard that the Chinese wear blue ribbon on their hair for mourning.”
“If he’s mourning for my dog, it looks well in him,” mused Shot’s bereaved master; and to emphasize his indignation Kirke turned away his head while Sing Wung climbed to the back seat of the wagon.
Paul cracked the whip, and the grotesque little mules trotted on, flapping their broad ears at every step, as if they considered them wings and were preparing to fly.
“The grass is getting brown,” remarked Paul, when they had left the city behind them, “as brown as hay. And phew! isn’t the road dusty!”