probably would have done so, had not "something happened," as Mark would have put it.
Alan was anxious, weary, furiously angry, and wholly famished; even the last muddy rice had been eaten long ago. Ping-Pong, too, was hungry; she whimpered in her sleep and sucked her thumb for solace. Alan stared at her and shook his head.
"You're 'bad joss pidgin,' all right," he muttered. "You've balled up this expedition considerably. And I don't blame them in the least for thinking you must form an important part of a nefarious plot. As an existing fact, you're preposterous. Are you really there at all?"
Ping-Pong was quite there. She wriggled over with a sigh and sought to find a softer place on the flagged floor. Alan kept his eyes warily upon the treasure-box at intervals. He more than suspected that at the first opportunity every official would have a fat "squeeze" from that chest. He wondered what he could do if he should see them carrying it off out of sight. And how was it possible that he could ever get in touch with Mark? Mark, reckless spirit, for all he knew, was deep in some adventure wilder than that of the Black Joss by this time.
