Something popped in Peter's ears. His feet struck a yielding deck. He staggered backward, sprawled. The rope was whipped from his hand. The warm arms still clung about his neck.
As the world wheeled, a drunken universe, a sullen voice yelped at his ear. The arms loosened.
The Vandalia twinkled closely and was swept into the mist, a blur, a phantom. His hands blazed with infernal fire.
He sat up and looked behind him. The river was murderously dark. Water gurgled under the flimsy bow. The dull tread of feet and a watery flailing behind him advised Peter that the coolie was struggling against the rushing current.
Slowly he became conscious of a weight upon his breast, a low sobbing. A delicate, feminine odor brought him to earth, unraveled his tangled wits.
He was sitting upon the wet floor of the sampan's low cabin. His captive had crept close to him for protection. Protection! He snorted, wondering if the coolie was licensed.
"Hai! Hai! Woo-Sung way." The voice was villainously stubborn.
"Shanghai-way. Kuai cho—hurry!" roared Peter. A sigh escaped from the girl. She snuggled closer. "Woo-Sung. Pu-shih! Savvy?"
"Hai! Mebbe can do." The sampan reared, braving the direct onslaught of the Whang-poo's swift tide.
A myriad of questions in his brain strove for utterance. But the girl spoke first.