“Feed’m chicken cleam soda. No good Chinaman!”
“Yes,––you slit eyed Mongolian! That reminds me,” exclaimed Jim, his mouth half-full of apple-pie. “Talking about chickens,––what you do with all our chickens?”
“Chickens? No savvy!” innocently commented Sing, as he replaited and tied the black silk cords at the end of his pig-tail.
“You savvy all right,––you son-of-a-gun!
“Phil,––when we came here there were thirty-six chickens in our pen. We’ve had two to eat ourselves. I counted only fourteen there to-day. That’s twenty chickens gone somewhere.”
Ah Sing still shook his head.
“I know, I savvy!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Coyote catchem!”
“Coyote hell!” shouted Jim.
“Ya,––you bet! Coyote hell evely night. You hear’m?”
“Sure we hear them. The darned brutes howl and 300 laugh and keep us off our sleep every night the moon is up.”