dirty and apprehensive American youths, one of them somewhat damp and muddy; one box containing two hundred thousand taels of treasure; one amiably disposed Chinese baby, origin unknown, destination equally so. There they were, somewhere in the province of Kechiang, and there, so far as Mark could see, they would continue to be for some time.
It is odd how the present fills every chink of the brain, eclipsing everything behind. Resthaven was a dream, the Delphian a memory; the Sham-poo was reality, and Mark's newest problem absorbed him and knit his brow.
"What do you feed 'em?" he inquired, from the yulow.
"Who?" Alan demanded.
"Babies," Mark said.
"Milk," retorted his brother.
"I mean something we have," Mark explained.
"Rice, then, of course, O Thou of Mighty Intellect," Alan chanted.
"I suppose that'll have to be it," Mark agreed. "She is biggish, though, isn't she. When do they stop having bottles?"
"I'm no baby book," Alan said.
