a voice saying in plaintive accents, something that sounded like "Chy
Lee."

I faced around sternly.

"What did you say?"

"Me say, 'Chy Lee.'"

"Well?" I said impatiently.

"You sabe, 'How do, John?'"

"Yes."

"You sabe, 'So long, John'?"

"Yes."

"Well, 'Chy Lee' allee same!"

I understood him quite plainly. It appeared that "Chy Lee" was a form of
"good-night," and that Wan Lee was anxious to go home. But an instinct
of mischief, which, I fear, I possessed in common with him, impelled
me to act as if oblivious of the hint. I muttered something about not
understanding him, and again bent over my work. In a few minutes I heard
his wooden shoes pattering pathetically over the floor. I looked up. He
was standing near the door.

"You no sabe, 'Chy Lee'?"