As the little man came close to Johnny he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “You know that Centralia baseball captain, Barney Bradford?”
Johnny grumbled, “Of course I do. Suppose you have a picture of his thoughts too.”
“Ye-s-s,” the little man drawled, “Tao Sing has picture of that one’s thoughts.”
“Oh, you have?” This affair was getting almost funny. “What does he think?”
“He thinks his pitcher has been sick. He thinks, not sick now. Pitch tomorrow. Win tomorrow. He thinks this—Barney Bradford.” The little Chinaman let out a low cackle. “I have the picture of his thoughts. So now you know that Tao Sing tell no lie. You did not know this pitcher is well again. Is it not so?”
“I—I did not know,” Johnny agreed reluctantly.
“And your team mates did not know. But Tao Sing, he know. Listen!” The little man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You are a friend of Wung Lu, the rich and wise one, is it not so?”
“Y-yes, that’s right,” Johnny stammered, too astonished to think clearly.
“Ah yes, you are a friend of Wung Lu,” the little man murmured. “Perhaps some day I will show you the picture of your thoughts. Perhaps very soon, some day I shall show you.”
Once more the little yellow man vanished into the darkness. He left an astonished boy staring at the place where he had been.