“Mm-m-m.”
John was not so sure. Then:
“You come in, eh? I make you li’l glub.”
They filed into the living room and sat down, while the Chinaman got busy with his fire. The Turkey Track living room was not an attractive place; it was more like a bunk house. There were three beds, badly tumbled, a few chairs, a littered table, a scattered lot of playing cards and a ragged carpet, plentifully littered with ashes and cigaret butts.
The Chinaman was busily rattling his utensils and singing in a weak, high-pitched voice. Hashknife stepped over to the door, leaned against the wall and watched him. Suddenly he leaned forward, squinting toward the stove, and spoke softly—
“What’s the matter, John?”
The Chinaman was putting some wood into the fire-box, but turned and looked at Hashknife.
“W’at yo’ say?” he asked, blandly.
“About that wood,” said Hashknife slowly. “Yuh can’t burn green wood, John.”
“No sabe.”