“No, no, no!” shrieked Ching.
“Steady, my lad, I’ll soon have it off. I won’t cut down to the bone.”
“No, no!” cried Ching, who was excited and alarmed, and who now began chattering in his own tongue, all pang ang nong wong ong, and a series of guttural sounds, while I could do nothing for laughing, but had to stand like a post for Ching to dodge behind.
“Why don’t you stand by, messmate?” growled Tom Jecks. “You can’t go through life with that there tin-kettle tied to your tail. Fust one as see yer will be calling, ‘Mad dog.’”
By this time the watch had come to see what was going on, and I now began to feel sorry for the Chinaman.
“Here, Ching,” I said. “Come down below.”
But he was too much alarmed for the moment to listen to my words, expecting every moment as he was that some one would make a snatch at his tail, to obviate which accident he was now holding the canister tightly beneath his arm, and looking wildly round for a way to escape.
“Hadn’t we better have it took off, sir?” said Tom Jecks, and there was a roar of laughter. “Let’s ketch him and take him to the doctor.”
“No, no!” cried Ching, dodging round me again, for Tom Jecks, to the delight of the others, made a snatch at him.
“You’ll be a deal more comfortable, messmate—you know you will. Here, let’s have it?”