The Chinaman was sitting in a chair before his stove, scraping away on a Chinese fiddle, bringing the most unearthly cat-calls from the thing and singing to himself in a thin falsetto voice.
“He’s nothing if he is not musical,” remarked Jim.
Suddenly Sing stopped and laid down his fiddle. He rose, opened the oven door and brought out two beautifully roasted chickens, laid the pan down on top of the stove and rubbed his hands in pleasant anticipation.
“Well I’ll be darned!” whispered Jim.
“And we blamed it on the coyotes,” answered Phil. “Let us go in and scare the daylights out of him.”
For a moment Jim seemed inclined to follow Phil’s suggestion, but he relented.
“Och!––what’s the good? The poor deevil hasna a body to make frien’s o’, nor a thing to do to keep himsel’ out o’ mischief. Besides it is Christmas Eve. Let us bide in the spirit o’ it and leave the poor heathen to enjoy himsel’ for this once.
“Come on up hame to our virtuous cots!”