“Dinnel all leady,” he announced in tinkling syllables.
“And we’re all ready, too, Sing Ling,” laughed Merle, as she went up and shook the Chinaman’s hand.
“Me vely glad to see you again, missie.”
“I didn’t know you were old friends,” exclaimed Munson, in some surprise.
“Oh, didn’t you? Sing Ling has been Mr. Robles’ cook off and on for nearly twenty years. When Mr. Robles is abroad of course he works elsewhere. That’s why you found him at San Antonio Rancho.”
“But Dick told me he was his cook—had been for several years.”
“With Mr. Robles’ tacit consent, then,” replied Merle.
The Chinaman was grinning in a vacuous sort of way, as if all the conversation was so much Greek to him.
“Sing Ling, you scamp,” cried Munson, “I begin to understand now how Mr. Robles comes to know so much about Dick and myself. You’ve been telling tales out of school.”
“Oh, no; me cookee allee time; me no go school,” replied the Celestial, in guileless incomprehension.