But the door of the sitting-room opened and the Chinaman himself came in.
He left the door a-swing and spoke clearly. "Misser Dlake," said he,
"slove bloke" (stove broke).

The superintendent came out of his office, following Sam to the kitchen.
He gave no look or word to the buccaroos with their demijohn; he merely
held his cigar sidewise in his teeth and walked with no hurry through the
sitting-room. Sam took him through to the kitchen and round to a hind
corner of the stove, pointing.

"Misser Dlake," said he, "slove no bloke. I hear them inside. They going
kill you."

"That's about the way I was figuring it," mused Dean Drake.

"Misser Dlake," said the Chinaman, with appealing eyes, "I velly solly
you. They no hurtee me. Me cook."

"Sam, there is much meat in your words. Condensed beef don't class with
you. But reserve your sorrows yet a while. Now what's my policy?" he
debated, tapping the stove here and there for appearances; somebody might
look in. "Shall I go back to my office and get my guns?"

"You not goin' run now?" said the Chinaman, anxiously.

"Oh yes, Sam. But I like my gun travelling. Keeps me kind of warm. Now if
they should get a sight of me arming--no, she's got to stay here till I
come back for her. So long, Sam! See you later. And I'll have time to
thank you then."