Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Surprise.
That night had set in very dark. The clouds were heavy overhead, and the river now looked intensely black, but toward the shore there were the dull lights of the Chinese town glimmering in the water, while from some building, whether on account of a religious ceremony or a festival, a great gong was being beaten heavily, its deep, sonorous, quivering tones floating over the place, and reaching my ears like the tolling of a church bell.
It only wanted that depressing sound to make my spirits at the lowest ebb, and set me thinking of home, the perils of the career in which I was engaged, and wondering whether I should ever see England again.
The watch had been set, and from time to time Mr Reardon came aft to look anxiously astern.
The last time Mr Brooke was with him, and they stopped near where I was standing.
“But they ought to be back by now,” Mr Reardon said.
“It’s a long pull,” Mr Brooke replied, “and the tide is terribly sharp at this time.”
“Yes, yes—it is; but I want to see them back. Who’s that?”
“Herrick, sir.”