“He go heap far! Indian sabe!” said Sing Wung, who was squatting on his heels at Kirke’s feet, and had been fanning him with a green palm leaf.
“Indian? What Indian?”
“He means Mateo,” interposed Paul. “Mateo was the thief; he stole Shot, and now he pretends he didn’t. He tries to make it out that Shot strayed to his house, and that he tied him there to keep him safe for his master.”
“Keep him safe! As if my bright little dog wouldn’t have known enough to go home, if he had let him alone! I don’t believe one word of that old Indian’s story.”
“Neither do I,” said Paul. “We all know better, and we told him so. See how his rope has worn the hair from Shot’s neck.”
“What a shame! But there, I won’t fret. I have my little terrier back again, alive and well,” murmured happy Kirke.
But he felt a pang of remorse, as he looked at Sing Wung, and met that Chinaman’s eyes fixed upon him with a glance of the deepest devotion.
“Melican boy muchee good,” said the poor fellow, brokenly. “No makee fizzee, fizzee! Sing Wung no burnee!”
“I haven’t been so good to you as you think I have, Sing Wung,” said honest Kirke. “But I did put out the fuse. I’m no end thankful for that!”
Still the Chinaman lingered, struggling in vain for words to tell his feelings.