Then a comical thing happened, and if any third person with a humorous vein in his make-up had been around, the proceeding would have been highly enjoyed.
Both youngsters glared at each other. Each had his fists doubled, and each fiddled back and forth across the steep path. The black boy sniffed contemptuously. The Chinese lad was a good imitator, and he also sniffed—even more contemptuously.
"By golly," fumed the little moke, "Ah dunno whut's er holdin' me back. Ef any one else had done tuh me whut yo' done, Ah'd hab tromped all ober him befo' now. Ah's gwine tuh dat boathouse mah'se'f. Git outen de way an' le'me pass, er Ah'll butt yo' wif mah haid!"
"My makee go to boathouse, too."
A little curiosity suddenly crept into the black boy's hostile brain.
"Whut bizness yo' got at dat boathouse, huh?" he demanded.
"Gottee plenty pidgin. My workee fo' Motol Matt."
"Yo' workin' fo' Motor Matt?" grunted the other. "By golly, he's mah boss."
"Him China boy's boss."
"Naw, he ain't. Yo's talkin' froo yo' hat. Doan' yo' go er prowlin' erroun' dat 'ar boathouse. Ah ain't a-lettin' nobody git dat job away f'om me."