Cao Zhida sent out the steamed buns, and these travelers thanked him profusely as they left with them.
After a while, these men returned.
They didn't walk back, they were pushed back by a cart.
They were lying on a flat cart, their faces pale, frothing at the mouth, looking like dead men.
The person pushing the cart was a middle-aged man in his fifties. He pushed the cart to the restaurant's front door and shouted inside, "Is there anyone alive in there?"
Zuo Wugang came out of the restaurant, glanced at the men on the cart, and immediately understood the situation.
The middle-aged man pushing the cart looked at Zuo Wugang: "Are you the owner of this place?"
Zuo Wugang nodded: "That's me."
The middle-aged man said, "I've been traveling the roads for decades; friends call me Tan Jinxiao. These friends of mine ate a bun at your place, and in the blink of an eye, they couldn't get up. What do you make of that?"
Zuo Wugang laughed, "What do you make of it?"
