Part 3 (2/2)

”Now then,” cried Barkins, who was full of memories of hard biscuit and tough salt beef, ”what are we going to have to eat?”

”I don't know,” I said, looking round uneasily. ”What have they got?”

”Here, let's make Ching order the dinner,” cried Smith. ”Look here, old chap. We can have a good dinner for a dollar apiece, can't we?”

”Velly good dinner, dollar piecee,” he replied.

”That's right,” said Barkins; ”we don't have a chance every day to spend a dollar upon our dinner. Go it, Ching. Tell the waiter fellow, and order for yourself too. But I say, boys, we must have birds'-nest soup.”

”Of course,” we chorussed, though Smith and I agreed afterwards that we rather shrank from trying the delicacy.

Ching lost no time in giving the orders, and in a very few minutes the man bustled up with saucers and basins, and we began tasting this and tasting that as well as we could with the implements furnished to us for the purpose, to wit chopsticks, each watching the apparently wonderful skill with which Ching transferred his food from the tiny saucers placed before him, and imitating his actions with more or less success-- generally less.

We had some sweet stuff, and some bits of cuc.u.mber cut up small, and some thick sticky soap-like stuff, which rather put me in mind of melted blancmange with salt and pepper instead of sugar, and when this was ended came saucers of mincemeat.

”'Tain't bad,” whispered Barkins, as we ate delicately. ”Peg away, lads. We're pretty safe so long as we eat what Pigtail does.”

I did not feel so sure; but I was hungry, and as the food did not seem to be, as Barkins said, bad, I kept on, though I could not help wondering what we were eating.

”I say, Ching,” said Smith suddenly, ”when's the birds'-nest soup coming? Oughtn't we to have had that first?”

”Eat um all up lit' bit go,” replied Ching.

”What, that sticky stuff?” I cried.

”Yes. No have velly bess flesh birds'-ness for dolla'; but all velly good. Nicee nicee, velly nicee.”

”Don't!” cried Smith excitedly.

”Let him be, Blacksmith,” said Barkins; ”it's only his way. Ah, here's something else!”

I looked at the little saucers placed before us, in which, neatly divided, were little appetising-looking brown heaps, covered with rich gravy, and smelling uncommonly nice.

”What's this?” said Barkins, turning his over with the chopsticks.

”Velly good,” said Ching, smiling, and making a beginning.

”Yes; don't smell bad,” said Smith. ”I know: it's quails. There's lots of quail in China. 'Licious!”

I had a little bit of the white meat and brown gravy, which I had separated from a tiny bone with the chopsticks, and was congratulating myself on my cleverness, when it dropped back into my saucer, for Ching, with his mouth full, said quietly--

”No, not lit' bird--lat.”

”What's lat?” said Barkins suspiciously.

”No lat,” said Ching smiling; ”lat.”

”Well, I said lat. What is lat?”

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