The other Chinaman, having a greater space in which to manœuvre, had managed to avoid the tree root. By means of the brake he had caused his machine to slow down, and had then leaped off. After carefully leaning the bicycle against a tree, he approached his fat countryman in a most deferential manner. The latter nodded gravely from his seat on the ground.
The pursuer thereupon flung himself to his knees, and beat his forehead three times in the dust.
After that, the fat Chinaman said something. Presumably it was in his native tongue, for it sounded like heathen gibberish, and the boys could make nothing out of it.
But the lean Chinaman seemed to understand. Lifting himself and sitting back on his heels, he pushed a hand into the breast of his coat, and brought out a little black box about the size of a cigarette case. This, with every sign of respect and veneration, he offered to the other Celestial.
The fat man took the box, waved his fan, and eased himself of a few more remarks. The lean fellow once more kotowed, then arose silently, regained his wheel, and vanished from sight down the road. The fat Mongolian was left balancing the black box in his hand and eying it with pensive interest.
"Well, speak to me about this!" breathed McGlory. "What do you make out of it, Matt?"
"Not a thing," whispered Matt. "That fellow has a red button in his cap."
McGlory showed traces of excitement.
"Glory, and all hands round!" he gasped. "Have you any notion that the chink we're looking for has lammed into us in this violent fashion, right here on the mountainside?"
"Give it up. Watch; see what he's up to."