“No good,” he said; “makee men low fast light up liver, findee, pilate junk.”
“But suppose we pass them?” I said.
“No pass pilate boat: Ching here.”
“And so you think you will know them?”
The Chinaman screwed his face up into a curiously comic smile.
“Ching know pilate when he see him.”
“And you think it better to go right up the river?” said Mr Brooke, turning suddenly to join in the conversation.
“Yes; pilate junk long way.”
“How do you know?”
He gave a cunning smile at us both, his little eyes twinkling in a singularly sly manner.