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"Wears his queue Pompadour, I see," he said, as he glanced at Chung's extraordinary head-dress. "Yes," said Dawson, shortly. "You wear your hair that way yourself," he added, for he was pleased as well as astonished to note that Perkins's hair was manifesting an upward tendency. "Nonsense," said Perkins. "It's flat as a comic paper." "Look at yourself in the glass," said Dawson. Perkins obeyed.
It showed me that the cook, anyhow, had not seen Worth last night in Santa Ysobel. "Just now I hea' 'bout Boss." Chung's eye went straight to the stain on the rug, exactly as Edwards' had done, but it stopped there, and his Oriental impassiveness was unmoved. "Too bad," he concluded, thrust the fingers of one hand up the sleeve of the other and waited. "Where you been all day?" I said quickly.
At the time when our story opens, this young fellow was growing up to manhood, and had proved himself to be possessed of no mean ability, for on the various occasions on which he had sat for examination before the Literary Chancellor, his papers had been of a very high order of merit. The rumours of Chung's generosity had travelled further than he had ever dreamed of.
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