“Why?”
“Looks biggerer and clumsier, and deeper in the water.”
“Yes; tlade boat from Hopoa,” said Ching softly, as if speaking to himself.
“I’m not satisfied,” said Mr Brooke. “Go forward, Mr Herrick; your eyes are sharp. We’ll sail round her again. All of you have a good look at her rigging.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” whispered the men; and I crept forward among them to where Ching had stationed himself, and once more we began gliding up before the wind, which was sufficiently brisk to enable us to easily master the swift tide.
As I leaned over the side, Ching heaved a deep sigh.
“What’s the matter?” I whispered.
“Ching so velly mislable,” he whispered back. “Mr Blooke think him velly bad man. Think Ching want to give evelybody to pilate man. Ching velly velly solly.”
“Hist! look out!”
I suppose our whispering had been heard, for just as we were being steered pretty close to the anchored junk, a deep rough voice hailed us something after this fashion, which is as near as I can get to the original—