King Ching Chung ate half of it. Perhaps he ate a trifle more than half. He kept his gaze upon the platter. He said neither "Good," nor "Bad."
Cheng Chang lingered near by to receive the praise that he felt was due. But the praise was slow in forthcoming. The wondering cook began to fear that he had dropped in too much chiao fen. Horrors. Horrors twice. Suppose he had? He deserved to be killed.
King Ching Chung laid his knife aside. He placed his fork in company. He raised his eyes and gazed at Cheng Chang. For a full minute he gazed. He questioned, "Cheng Chang, did you cook this duck?' Poor Cheng Chang. Down he went, kneeling three times. Each time he knelt, his head rapped the floor thrice. "Yes, most gracious and forgiving Majesty, I cooked the duck. I, Cheng Chang, alone am guilty. Oh, have mercy." He could almost feel the headsman's sword,
Steadily for another minute the monarch stared. Then he spoke. "You did, did you?
