“Why, it's Hop Sing!” exclaimed Jo, upon first sight of the prisoner. “They've cut off half his queue and braided his hair in two pig tails, and put different clothes on him, and he does look like an Indian. How very extraordinary!”
“Kethem Digger Dan cloe,” blazed Sing.
“That's a likely tale,” said the sheriff, “betcha he knows more about stage robbin' than he'll let out.”
“I am sure he does not about this one. He was with me every moment.” Nevertheless, she could not help remembering the substitute Chinaman whom Sing had put in to do his washing. But, though the complex Oriental nature will never be quite understood by the Occidental, she had confidence in the loyalty of the Chinaman, who had served them for five years, and whose life had once been saved by her father.
“Ah Sing, will you tell me what happened,” she asked, knowing well that a command would only elicit a stolid “No savvey.” Put as a favor, or a confidence, he might respond.
“Him Digger Dan, no good! He stealem me clo'e. Ketchem. Missa Land (Rand) an' plenty man come, he lun (run). I ketchem him! Tlee (three) lobber (robber) come. To-o muchee men. I no can fight! He—”
“They tied him on a horse and drove it down the canyon for us to follow, while they got away.”
“I tell you, he knows more about it than he's telling!”
“I don't think so, sheriff,” said Rand, positively. The man turned to him, suspiciously.
“Me go home, all same Missie Joe?” Hop Sing raised an expressionless face and glared at the broad belt of the sheriff.