The Chinese Parrot (Charlie Chan Detective Series) — page 279: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a, hung on a patio wall the mercury began its quick relentless fall, a sharp wind swept over the desolate waste, and loneliness settled on the world. "Warm food needed now," remarked Chan. "With your permission I will open numerous cans.” "Anything but the arsenic," Eden told him. He departed for the cookhouse. Holley had long since gone, and Bob Eden sat alone by the window, looking out at a vast silence. Lots of room left in America yet, he reflected. Did they think that, those throngs of people packed into subways at this hour, seeking tables in noisy restaurants, waiting at jammed corners for the traffic signal, climbing weary and worn at last to the pigeon-holes they called home? Elbow room on the desert; room to expand the chest. But a feeling of disquiet, too, a haunting realization of one man's ridiculous unimportance in the scheme of things. Chan entered with a tray on which the dishes were piled high. He set down on the table two steaming plates of soup. "Deign to join me," he suggested. "First course is now served with the kind assistance of the can-opener." "Aged in the tin, eh, Charlie?" smiled Eden, drawing up. "Well, I'll bet it's good, at that. You're a bit of a magician in the kitchen." They began to eat. "Charlie, I've been thinking," the boy continued. "I know now why I have 279 comiicboeoe S CO