Sing's hen?"

"I wonder what he's going to give us for supper! I'm nearly starved.
There never was such a place for appetites--eating doesn't stop that
hollow, all-gone feeling a bit!" calmly stated Alfy, with a tragic air.

"Alfy, you little pig! It isn't more than an hour since we finished
dinner," reproved Molly, laughing.

"Well, I can't help that. I wish 'twas supper-time. Let's go in the
kitchen and ask for a piece--like the children home do, bless 'em!"

"I say, you better not! Wun Sing's hen--"

"Monty--quit! Let's all go ask for a 'piece'!" cried Leslie, throwing
his arm around the "fat boy's" shoulder and forcing him along with the
others.

Herbert pulled out a jew's-harp--procured nobody knew where--and headed
the procession with a vain attempt to render "Yankee Doodle" so that it
could be recognized for itself. Then all fell into line, with the
laughter and nonsense natural to a company of care free "youngsters" as
they were now known all over the premises.

But as they passed a room just beyond Leslie's own, he poked his head
through the window, to demand of Mateo, lying within:

"Any better, boy?"

"_Gracias_, Senor Leslie. Much better. Only, the hen of Wun Sing; the
omelette--Ah! I suffer, _si_. I groan--I am on fire. The heathen
creature and his foul fowl!"

"What's the matter, Les? Is that your pert valet laid up in yon? What's
up?"

"Rather--what's down? The boy hasn't been well, or says he hasn't these
three days. That's why I had to put off the bear--"

"Mum! Dorothy's just behind us and she has ears all round her head! But
we'll do it, yet; either with or without him. It'll be rippin' fun, but
if that girl gets wind of it she'll stop it, sure."

"I wonder if we'll see Wun Sing's hen!" said Monty again.

"Stark! I tell you if you mention that fowl again I'll stuff her down
your throat!" cried Herbert, dropping his jew's-harp and engaging with
Monty. But the latter was round and easily slipped through Bert's
fingers, and the scrimmage was playful, anyway.

Resuming their march they entered the great kitchen, now wholly deserted
save by the Chinaman, who cowered in a corner, praying lustily to his
honorable forefathers and burning some sort of stuff before a little
image on the floor beside him. Like a good many others of his race, Wun
Sing was "good Chlistian" when it suited him to be, but a much better
devotee of his ancient gods when real trouble overtook him.

Wun Sing was in t