Go it, Ching.

Tell the waiter fellow, and order for yourself too.

But I say, boys, we must have birds'-nest soup." "Of course," we chorussed, though Smith and I agreed afterwards that we rather shrank from trying the delicacy.
Ching lost no time in giving the orders, and in a very few minutes the man bustled up with saucers and basins, and we began tasting this and tasting that as well as we could with the implements furnished to us for the purpose, to wit chopsticks, each watching the apparently wonderful skill with which Ching transferred his food from the tiny saucers placed before him, and imitating his actions with more or less success-- generally less.
We had some sweet stuff, and some bits of cucumber cut up small, and some thick sticky soap-like stuff, which rather put me in mind of melted blancmange with salt and pepper instead of sugar, and when this was ended came saucers of mincemeat.
"'Tain't bad," whispered Barkins, as we ate delicately.

"Peg away, lads.

We're pretty safe so long as we eat what Pigtail does." I did not feel so sure; but I was hungry, and as the food did not seem to be, as Barkins said, bad, I kept on, though I could not help wondering what we were eating.
"I say, Ching," said Smith suddenly, "when's the birds'-nest soup coming?
Oughtn't we to have had that first ?" "Eat um all up lit' bit go," replied Ching.
"What, that sticky stuff ?" I cried.
"Yes.