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 "What a notice!" exclaimed Sandoval. "As if he might have confidence in the police, eh? And what verses! Don Tiburcio converted into a quatrain—two feet, one longer than the other, between two crutches! If Isagani sees them, he'll present them to his future aunt."

"Here's Isagani!" called a voice from the stairway. The happy youth appeared radiant with joy, followed by two Chinese, without camisas, who carried on enormous waiters tureens that gave out an appetizing odor. Merry exclamations greeted them.

Juanito Pelaez was missing, but the hour fixed had already passed, so they sat down happily to the tables. Juanito was always unconventional.

"If in his place we had invited Basilio," said Tadeo, "we should have been better entertained. We might have got him drunk and drawn some secrets from him."

"What, does the prudent Basilio possess secrets?"

"I should say so!" replied Tadeo. "Of the most important kind. There are some enigmas to which he alone has the key: the boy who disappeared, the nun—"

"Gentlemen, the pansit lang-lang is the soup par excellence!" cried Makaraig. "As you will observe, Sandoval, it is composed of vermicelli, crabs or shrimps, egg paste, scraps of chicken, and I don't know what else. As first-fruits, let us offer the bones to Don Custodio, to see if he will project something with them."

A burst of merry laughter greeted this sally.

"If he should learn—"

"He'd come a-running!" concluded Sandoval. "This is excellent soup—what is it called?"

"Pansit lang-lang, that is, Chinese pansit, to distinguish it from that which is peculiar to this country."

"Bah! That's a hard name to remember. In honor of Don Custodio, I christen it the soup project!"

"Gentlemen," said Makaraig, who had prepared the menu, "there are three courses yet. Chinese stew made of pork—"