ntion of food.

'Well,' Ping Wang said, 'I'm not hungry either, but we shall want some
dinner.'

He went downstairs to give the order and have a chat with the
inn-keeper. He was absent about twenty minutes, and when he returned the
Pages saw that he had some news to tell them.

'What is it?' Charlie asked.

Ping Wang quietly turned the key in the door and then sat down beside
his friends.

'There is to be a feast to-night. It's to be held at the other end of
the town, and everybody who possibly can will be there. That will leave
this end of the town nearly deserted. A better opportunity for climbing
over Chin Choo's wall we could not possibly have. The road will be
deserted, and most of Chin Choo's servants will be at the feast. Perhaps
Chin Choo himself will be there. Don't let us talk about it just now.
Our dinner will not be brought up for three hours, and in the meantime
we had better get all the sleep that we can. We must be as fresh as
possible this evening.'

Charlie and Fred agreed, and five minutes later all three were sleeping
soundly.

They were aroused from their slumber by a terrific banging at their
door.

'Who's there?' Ping Wang asked in Chinese, and the reply came, from the
landlord himself, that he was their disreputable nephew, who would, if
permitted to intrude his worthless body upon their exalted presence, lay
the dinner.

Ping Wang replied instantly that if their intellectual uncle would
condescend to demean himself by waiting on such idiotic monkeys, they
would at once admit his glorious body to their ridiculous and
contemptible presence.

These flowery Chinese compliments having been exchanged, Ping Wang
opened the door to his 'uncle,' and his 'nephew' walked in and placed a
couple of ducks on the table.

As soon as they had finished their meal, the Pages and Ping Wang went to
the window and stood gazing down into the busy street. Charlie quickly
noticed that nearly all the people who were proceeding in one direction
were carrying provisions.

'Are they taking those things to give to their ancestors' ghosts?' he
inquired.

'Well, no,' Ping Wang replied. 'The feast to be given to-night has been
got up by the priests of Fo.'

'Who is Fo?'

'Buddha. Fo is our name for him. The Buddhists decided, many years ago,
that the Confucians were to be blamed for neglecting to feast the ghosts
of those who had been so unfortunate as to die without leaving any
descendants, and agreed to