“Do you think the fellow is to be trusted, Mr. Prawle?” inquired Jack.
“Do I think so?” repeated the prospector, slowly. “Hardly. We’ve got to keep an eye upon him in a sort of general way. These Celestials are born thieves, and slicker than greased lightning. I haven’t forgotten that yarn the rascal spun this morning.”
“I never heard anything more comical,” grinned Charlie. “The idea of that Mongolian being the president of a Chinese bank in San Francisco, skinning his depositors and then skipping the town!”
“And the nerve of him in telling us all about it,” said Jack. “Just as if he thought it would be a sort of recommendation.”
“Wanted to impress us with the idea how smart he was.”
“Come to think of it,” said Gideon Prawle, reflectively, “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was something back of his coming here.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Prawle?” asked Jack, in some surprise.
“Well, I don’t mean anything in particular, only that Mongolian, the more I think of it, doesn’t strike me favorably. He’s altogether too willing, when you come to consider the matter. I noticed him several times casting an inquisitive look about the spot we’re working; and all about the place, for that matter. You can’t tell anything about these Chinks. He may have been run out of Rocky Gulch, for all we know.”
The more they sized up Meen Fun the more they began to distrust the Mongolian—at least Gideon did, and he had had a long and varied experience with the moon-eyed foreigners.
After a good bath in the creek Prawle and the boys sat down to supper, Meen Fun taking his just out of earshot.