This exciting race and the blast of Peter's automatic now attracted the earnest attention of a gray little river gunboat, just down from up-stream, and inured to such incidents as this.
A one-pound shell snarled overhead, struck the water a hundred yards further on, near the Kowloon shore, and sent up a foaming white pillar.
The pier at Kowloon loomed close and more close. It was unlikely that the gunboat would follow up the shot with another, and in this guess, Peter, as the French say, "had reason."
The fires under the gunboat's boilers were drawn, and there was no time for the launching of a cutter.
A great contentment settled down upon Peter's heart when he saw that the oncoming sampan could not reach the pier until he and his charge were out of sight, or out of reach, at least.
He examined his watch. The gods were with him. It lacked three minutes of train-time.
It was only a hope that he and the girl would be safe on board the Canton train before the red-faced man could catch up.
The sampan rubbed the green timbers of the Kowloon landing stage. Peter tossed up the girl's luggage in one large armful, lifted her by the armpits to the floor of the pier, and relieved himself hastily of four dollars (Mexican), by which the grunting coolie was gratefully, and for some few hours, richer.
They dashed to the first-class compartment, and Peter dragged the girl in beside him.
"To Canton, too?" she inquired in surprise.