“It was against these people that the Chinese built their great wall,” said Johnny thoughtfully. “I don’t wonder.”
“When do we see his highness, the great high chief who deals in cattle?”
His interpreter smiled. “I have just come from there. We may go to see him now.”
Johnny twisted one shoulder as if adjusting a heavy burden, then turned to follow the interpreter.
He did not like the looks of things; he longed to be safely back in Vladivostok with Mazie. There were times like this when he wished he had not taken it upon himself to play the fairy godfather to Russia’s starving hosts. But since he had undertaken the task, however difficult it might prove, he must carry on.
He soon found himself sitting cross-legged on a floor so deeply imbedded in soft, yielding skins that he sank half out of sight beneath them. Before him, also reposing in this sea of softness, was a Mongol of unusual size, whose face was long and solemn. He puffed incessantly at a long-stemmed Russian pipe.
Forming the third corner of the triangle, was the little interpreter.
The two members of the yellow race conversed in low tones for some time. At last the interpreter turned to Johnny:
“I have told him that you want to buy cattle, much cattle. He say, how much you want to pay? How you want to pay? How much you want to buy?”
“You tell him that I saw six of his cattle out here just now. They are very poor. But we will take them—maybe. Ask him how much?”