Then I watched the shore, with its lights looking soft and mellow against the black velvety darkness. Now and then the booming of gongs floated off to us, and the squeaking of a curious kind of pipe; while from the boats close in shore the twangling, twingling sound of the native guitars was very plain—from one in particular, where there was evidently some kind of entertainment, it being lit up with a number of lanterns of grotesque shapes. In addition to the noise—I can’t call it music—of the stringed instruments, there came floating to us quite a chorus of singing. Well, I suppose it was meant for singing; but our lads evidently differed, for I heard one man say in a gruff whisper—
“See that there boat, messmate?”
“Ay,” said another. “I hear it and see it too.”
“Know what’s going on?”
“Yes; it’s a floating poulterer’s shop.”
“A what?”
“A floating poulterer’s shop. Can’t you hear ’em killing the cats?”
This interested me, and I listened intently.
“Killing the cats?” said another.
“Ay, poor beggars. Lor’ a mussy! our cats at home don’t know what horrible things is done in foreign lands. They’re killing cats for market to-morrer, for roast and biled.”