"How much did he have to put up for that wrecked motor car, Sam?" asked Matt.
"Twenty-fi' hunnerd dol'."
"He went and stung him!" whooped McGlory. "The old robber."
"No makee hurt. Twenty-fi' hunnerd dol' all same Tsan Ti likee twenty-fi' cent to me. Him plenty lichee man."
When Sam Wing went away, Matt and McGlory dumped the contents of the canvas sack out on the table. The money was all in gold, and totaled two thousand dollars, even.
"He figured out expenses at a thousand dollars," remarked the cowboy. "They're 'way inside that figure."
"He's the sort of fellow, Joe," said Matt, "who'd rather pay a man ten dollars when he only owed him five, than five when he owed ten."
"Sure! He's the clear quill, but he sure had me guessing, the way he jumped around. I'll bet he connected with more good, hard jolts on this trip to America than he ever encountered in his life before."
"We came pretty near it, ourselves," laughed Matt. "I can't remember that I ever had a more violent time."
"It was some strenuous, and that's a fact. If you live a hundred years, pard, and drive automobiles all the while, you'll never scrape closer to kingdom come, and miss it, than you did when we came down the mountainside with the mandarin at the steering wheel."