Matt was still peering from under the canvas.
"There's something here I can't understand," said he, a few moments later, and he dropped the canvas and faced his friends.
"Vat it iss?" asked Carl.
"Why, we set Ping to watching Dhondaram, and by all the rules of the game the Chinaman ought to be on the fellow's track. But he isn't, so far as I can see. What's become of Ping, McGlory?"
"Dhondaram has shaken him," hazarded the cowboy. "The chink wasn't sharp enough for the turban boy."
"That may be," mused Matt, "although I doubt it. Ping is about as smart a Chinaman as you'll find in a month's travel. It's mysterious."
"Then again," went on McGlory, "maybe Ping is on Dhondaram's trail and you don't know it. He's either too wise for us, or else not wise enough for the Hindoo. Pick out whichever conclusion you want."
But Matt shook his head, puzzled.
"He don'd vas mooch goot, dot chink feller," spoke up Carl gloomily. "Vone oof dose days you will findt him oudt."
"Don't try any slams on Ping," said McGlory. "He's the clear quill, he is, even though he's a rat-eater and a heathen. Ping has turned some pretty fine tricks for Matt and me, and like as not he's busy coming across with another. You've got too much of a grouch at the slant-eyed brother, Carl."