There was something ominous about mysteries, and he had made it a rule to fight shy of ominous things. He did not consider them at all good for a Chinaman's health, or his peace of mind.
And a Melican house, too, deserted and with closed shutters, offered dangers not lightly to be reckoned with.
But Ping, as yet, was Motor Matt's pard; and whereever Motor Matt led the way, then Ping would be more of a hired man than a pard if he did not follow. Shutting his teeth hard, and breathing only when necessary, the Chinese boy crossed the threshold of the house with the green shutters.
He was in a narrow hall that extended through the house from front to rear. A stairway led to the second floor, and two doors opened off to left and right.
Throttling his fears, Ping moved toward the door on the right, his sandals scuffling over the uncarpeted floor. There was no furniture in the house, and the floor was bare.
The swish of the sandals sent vague fears cantering through the little Celestial, and he curled up his toes in order to wedge the soles of his footgear closer to the bottoms of his feet.
The room he entered was dark. With a trembling hand he groped in his blouse for matches. Had he lost his matches in taking that header from the street car? His fears in that respect were short-lived, for he quickly found half a dozen of the small fire-sticks.
Scratching one, he held it up and peered around. The room was empty—bare as a last year's bird's nest. Going back into the hall, he examined a room on the opposite side. That one also was empty, and over all the emptiness arose a musty odor as of a building long untenanted.
Two more rooms remained to be examined on the first floor.
One of these was the kitchen, and a quantity of soot had drifted down and lay in a heap on the floor. Ping kept away from the soot, and was glad afterward that he had done so. Across the hall was the last of the four rooms comprising the lower part of the house—dark, deserted, and musty as were the other three.