e the Chinese people coming and going in their strange
costume; a busy hum came through the open windows; and I believe that in
a few minutes I should have been asleep, if Ching had not awakened me by
his vigorous onslaught upon the instrument, one of whose pegs refused to
stay in exactly the right place as he kept on tuning.

@@@@

Then a little more screwing up.

_Peng_, _peng_, _pang_--_pong_.

Ching stopped, nursed the instrument upon his knee as if it were a baby,
pulled out the offending peg as if it were a tooth, moistened the hole,
replaced the peg, and began again--screw, screw, screw.

@@@@

Just a quarter of a tone out still, and he tried again diligently, while
my eyes half closed, and the Tanner and Blacksmith both nodded in the
heat.

@@@@

Right at last; and Ching threw himself back so that his mouth would open
to the widest extent, struck a chord on the three strings, and burst
forth with celestial accompaniment into what was in all probability a
passionate serenade, full of allusions to nightingales, moonbeams,
dew-wet roses, lattice-windows, and beautiful moon-faced maidens, but
which sounded to me like--

"Ti ope I ow wow,
Ti ope I ow yow,
Ti ope I ow tow,
Ti ope I ligh."

The words, I say, sounded like that: the music it would be impossible to
give, for the whole blended together into so lamentable a howl, that
both Barkins and Smith started up into wakefulness from a deep sleep,
and the former looked wildly round, as confused and wondering he
exclaimed--

"What's matter?"

As for Smith, he seemed to be still half-asleep, and he sat up, staring
blankly at the performer, who kept on howling--I can call it nothing
else--in the most doleful of minor keys.

"I say," whispered Barkins, "did you set him to do that?"

I shook my head.

"Because--oh, just look! here are all the people coming out to see
what's the matter."

He was right as to the people coming, for in twos and threes, as they
finished the refreshment of which they had been partaking, first one
path was filled and then another, the people coming slowly up and
stopping to listen, while Barkins stared at them in blank astonishment.

"Here Nat--Poet," he whispered, "look at 'em."

"I am looking," I said. "Isn't it just like a picture?"

"It's like an old firescreen," he said; "but I don't mean that. Look!
Hang me if the beggars don't seem to like it. Can't you stop him?"

"No, of course not."

"But how l