you need to do is to tamper with his rations. What's the matter with
this rice, kid, and this meat pie?" he added, as the man who had served
their food since their occupancy of the old house approached with a
large, covered basket on his arm.

Jimmie wrinkled his freckled nose again and laid a hand on his stomach,
as if in sympathy with that organ for the unutterable Chinese
concoctions it had been called upon to assimilate of late.

"Rat pie!" he said, in a tone of disgust.

"I'll bet a dollar to a rap on the nose that it's rat pie! I can hear
the rats squeal nights when I'm tryin' to sleep an' can't."

"Say, Chink," Jack said, seizing the Chinaman by the shoulder and facing
him about so that a good look into his slanty eyes might be had, "what
do you know about this chuck?"

"No chuck! Pie!"

"Of course it's pie!" answered Jack. "It would be pie if it was made of
old shoes, if it had a crust on. What I want to know is, where did you
catch him, and who pays you to bring it to us, and who pays him to pay
you to feed it to us? Where does he live, and is he black, white, or
red? Come on, old top. You know a lot if you could only think of it."

The Chinaman, an evil-looking old fellow with a long cicatrice across
his left cheekbone, shook his head and regarded his questioner craftily.

"No spik English!" he said.