"Cheer up! The pirates are thick above Ichang. We'll both have our bloody necks slit a dozen times before we make Ching-Fu." Bobbie turned from the miniature mirror. His sea-blue eyes glared through a white lake of lather. "Hurry up and shave, you loafer! We'll miss that train."
"I'm not going to shave for six months!"
"Election bet?"
"When your utterly worthless life has been endangered as many times as——"
"What you need is a drink, my lad!"
"When you have evidence that the greatest criminal-at-large wants to have you stuck like a pig——"
MacLaurin swung his big frame about and stared. "You're not serious."
"I am referring to—a Gray Dragon. Ever hear of one?"
The razor in the large, red hand of Bobbie MacLaurin flashed. It came away from his cheek. A broad trickle of crimson spread down the lathered jaw, But he did not curse.
"We must hurry for that train," rumbled his big voice. "We must talk this over. We must hurry, Peter," he said again.