rather a fool of himself in listening to the little detective from the islands. Chan was an Oriental, also a policeman. Such a combination was bound to look at almost any situation with a jaundiced eye. After all he, Bob Eden, was here as the representative of Meek and Eden, and he must act as he saw fit. Was Chan in charge of this expedition, or was he?
The door opened, and on the threshold stood Ah Kim, in the person of Charlie Chan.
“You come’long, boss,” said his confederate loudly. “You ac’lazy bimeby you no catch’um bleckfast.”
Having said which, Charlie gently closed the door and came in, grimacing as one who felt a keen distaste.
“Silly talk like that hard business for me,” he complained. “Chinese without accustomed dignity is like man without clothes, naked, and ashamed. You enjoy long, restful sleep, I think.”
Eden yawned. “Compared to me last night, Rip Van Winkle had insomnia.”
“That’s good. Humbly suggest you tear yourself out of that bed now. The great Madden indulges in nervous fit on living-room rug.”
Eden laughed. “Suffering, is he? Well, we’ll have to stop that.” He tossed aside the covers.
Chan was busy at the curtains. “Favor me by taking a look from windows,” he remarked. “On every side desert stretches off like floor of eternity. Plenty acres of unlimitable sand.”
Bob Eden glanced out. “Yes, it’s the desert, and there’s plenty of it, that’s a fact. But look here—we ought to talk fast while we have the chance. Last night you made a sudden change in our plans.”
