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It was almost all he could do to breathe with such a weight upon him, but after a few moments’ rest he tried to shout for help. His shouts were not very loud, and soon he had to stop. He lay breathing heavily and looking up at the pile of dull earth.

“I wish,” he panted, “I hadn’t–come here.”

He fervently hoped that some sight-seer like himself might be attracted to the old, out-of-the-way adobe, for Jo was now convinced that it was impossible for him to set himself free. He tried again and again, but always with the same result of semi-suffocation under the sliding debris.

The forenoon passed away. The sun, mounting higher, shone over the dilapidated walls, and fell full on Jo’s face. He shielded his eyes with his free hand. The sun beat heavily on his head. Sometimes he thought he heard a rustle in the wild oats, and he cried out for help, but he afterward concluded the sound had been made by the wind or by some lizard.

Gradually the shade began to lengthen in the adobe. Jo looked wistfully at the shadow of the wall as it stretched a little farther toward him, and he sighed with relief when at length the sun that had made his head so hot was guarded from his face by the shadow that reached him. He had lain here a number of hours, and now, as he began to think about evening, he wondered what his father and mother would do when he did not come home. If they had not worried about him during the day, they would be alarmed at night.

“There are some coyotes around the neighborhood,” thought Jo.

He knew that a number of poultry-yards had suffered from coyotes. Jo did not suppose that a coyote would usually attack a person. Chickens, lambs, young pigs, were a coyote’s prey, but in Jo’s present situation he did not care to be visited by a coyote.

“I could throw clods at him,” thought Jo. “I hope that would scare him away.”

As the sun sank, Jo shouted repeatedly, till his breath was gone. He hoped that some laborer might take his homeward way across the unfrequented hill. But the prospect of such relief seemed very slight, so unused was this place to visitors. Jo saw a wild bird fly far overhead in the glow of the evening sky. The bird could go home, but he could not. He could only wait–how long?

After a while, there was the sound of clumsy feet that jolted by the adobe. Jo heard.

“Come here!” he cried with all his strength. “Come here! Come here!”

The clumsy feet stopped. There was a creaking sound, as of baskets swung to the ground. A face peered through a break in the wall, and Quang Po climbed into the adobe.

“Ho’lah!” he said.

“Ho’lah!” faintly responded Jo.

Quang Po wasted no more words, but set to work. He had not much to dig with, save his tough, yellow hands and a stick, but after nearly an hour’s exertion, he released Jo.

“You’ bones bloke?” asked Quang anxiously.

“No,” responded Jo, wincing. “My arm hurts, but I guess it’s only a sprain.”

“Me cally fish to lady,” explained Quang. “Me go closs hill to lady’s house. Hear you holler.”

Jo tried to stand, but found himself dizzy and faint, and Quang Po, leaving his baskets, went home with the lad.

Next day, Quang Po, going his rounds, was carrying his fish-baskets past Jo’s house. Jo, sitting on the steps, his arm in a bandage, made a sign to Quang to stop.

“My mother wants to buy some fish of you,” Jo said.

The fish were bought, and Quang was thanked by Jo’s mother for helping her boy. Quang went back to his baskets again, but Jo followed.

“Quang Po,” he said, choking a little, “you very good to me.”

Quang Po smiled.

“Quang,” confessed Jo, “I helped the other boys cut the sinkers from your big net, once.”

Quang nodded.

“Me sabe,” (understand) he answered, “me sabe long time ago.”

“I helped the other boys cut the line that held up your flounders,” faltered Jo. “I helped tip over the fish-frame.”

Quang Po nodded.

“Me t’ink so,” he said.

“What for you good to me?” demanded Jo.

“Me Clistian,” responded Quang Po with gravity, as if that one word explained everything. “Clistian must do lite.”

Jo looked at him. Quang lifted his heavy baskets on his pole.

“Goo’ by,” he said.

“Say–Quang Po,” burst out Jo, “I’m sorry! I won’t bother you any more! I won’t let the other boys do it, either! I can stop it.”

Quang Po smiled.

“Me glad you solly,” he said. “We be good flends, now.” And he trotted away, the heavy baskets creaking.

Jo looked after him.

“And I thought you were the heathen!” he whispered.