They were at Ah Sing's ranch. The three-hundred-acre field was level as a table, broken deep, thoroughly disked, and listed ready to water. The Chinaman, without any money or the slightest assurance he could get any for his planting, had worked all winter preparing the fields.
Ah Sing stood in front of his weed-and-pole shack waiting with that stoical anxiety which never betrays itself by hurry or nervousness. If the man of money came and saw fit to lend, "vellee well—if not, doee best I can."
"You go out and take a look at the field," Bob directed Noah, "see if there is any marsh grass or alfalfa roots, and look over his water ditches while I talk to the Chinaman."
"Good morning, Ah Sing," he said, extending his hand.
"Good morning, Misty Rogee." The Chinaman smiled and gave the visitor a friendly handshake. He was of medium height, had a well-shaped head and dignified bearing, and eyes that met yours straight. He looked about forty, but one never knows the age of a Chinaman.
"Nice farm, Ah Sing," Bob nodded approvingly at the well-plowed fields.
"He do vellee well." The Chinaman was pleased.
"And you have no money to make a crop?" Bob asked.
"No money," Ah Sing said, stoically.
"I heard last fall you had made a good deal of money raising cotton over here," suggested Bob.