There was a general laugh at this.
"I wonder what's become of Ping?" Matt inquired anxiously. "It isn't like him to hide out on us, in this fashion. The last I saw of him was last night."
"There is something queer about that," averred McGlory. "He ought to have been around to exult, Ping had, and it's——"
O'Hara stuck his head in at the tent flap, just at that moment.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sors, but there's an Injun just come, totin' a half-baked Chink. Do yez want thim insoide?"
"Sure!" cried Matt. "Send them in."
A Sioux Indian, looking anything but the noble red man in his moccasins and coat, hat, and trousers, pigeon toed his way into the tent with a brief but respectful "How!"
Behind him, half carried and half dragged, came Ping!
The boy was a sight.
He was bareheaded and barefooted; his usually neat blouse and baggy trousers were torn and soiled; his hands were bleeding, and there was a wild, despairing look on his yellow face. The wildness and the despair vanished, however, when he caught sight of Matt.