Matt was not chasing him, after all, but had been hot on the trail of Wily Bill!
While Ping sat there in the dust, hat and sandals gone, his clothes torn and awry, and himself more or less disorganized, he saw Wily Bill scramble up the steep bank and vanish among the bushes on the top of it. Possibly thirty seconds later, Matt sprang from the motor cycle, leaped up the ascent like an antelope, and likewise vanished.
"By Klismus!" murmured Ping, rubbing his knees. "Velly funny pidgin! My no savvy. One piecee queer biz, you bettee. Wow! China boy all blokee up! Motol Matt no wanchee pullee pin on China boy. Hoop-a-la!"
Between his physical pain on account of his bruises and his rejoicing over the discovery that Matt had not been following him, Ping failed to observe that the street car had stopped and backed up to the place nearest the spot where he was crooning to himself and rubbing his bruised limbs. It was not until the conductor and the motorman faced him that Ping realized that he was the object of their consideration.
"Didju fall off?" asked the conductor.
"No makee fall," answered Ping, cocking up his almond eyes, "makee jump."
"Blamed wonder yu didn't break yer neck!" growled the motorman. "Chinks don't know nothin' anyhow."
"Hurt?" asked the conductor, animated by a laudable desire to avoid a damage suit in behalf of the company.
"Heap sore," chattered Ping, "no bleakee bone. Hoop-a-la!" he jubilated, a wide grin cutting his yellow face in half. "Woosh!" he added, as the grin faded and a look of pain took its place.
"Well, I'm stumped!" muttered the conductor. "Is he crazy, or what?" he added, looking at the motorman.