“It is a big junk,” said Mr Brooke, with his lips to my ear; “and she has anchored.”
Then from some distance up the river we saw a very dim lantern sway here and there, some hoarse commands were given, followed by the creaking and groaning of a bamboo yard being lowered, and then all was perfectly still.
What strange work it seemed to be out there in the darkness of that foreign river, surrounded by curious sights and sounds, and not knowing but what the next minute we might be engaged in deadly strife with a gang of desperadoes who were perfectly indifferent to human life, and who, could they get the better of us, would feel delight in slaughtering one and all. It was impossible to help feeling a peculiar creepy sensation, and a cold shiver ran through one from time to time.
So painful was this silence, that I felt glad when we had sailed up abreast of the great vessel which had dropped anchor in mid-stream, for the inaction was terrible.
We sailed right by, went up some little distance, turned and came back on the other side, so near this time that we could dimly make out the heavy masts, the huge, clumsy poop and awkward bows of the vessel lying head to stream.
Then we were by her, and as soon as we were some little distance below Mr Brooke spoke—
“Well, my lads, what do you say: is she one of the junks?”
“No pilate junk,” said Ching decisively, and I saw Mr Brooke make an angry gesture—quite a start.
“What do you say, my lads?”
“Well, sir, we all seem to think as the Chinee does—as it arn’t one of them.”