“Ching, you’re a cruel wretch,” I cried, as Mr Brooke looked at the man in utter disgust.
“No; Ching velly glad see pilate bu’n up and dlown. Dleadful bad man, bu’n ship junk, chop off head. Kill hundleds poo’ good nicee people. Pilate velly hollid man. Don’t want pilate at all.”
“No, we don’t want them at all,” said Mr Brooke, who seemed to be studying the Chinaman’s utter indifference to the destruction of human life; “there’s no room for them in the world, but that’s not our way of doing business. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, Ching understand, know. Ching can’t talk velly quick Inglis, but hear evelyting.”
“That’s right. Well, my good fellow, that wouldn’t be English. We kill men in fair fight, or take them prisoners. We couldn’t go and burn the wretches up like that.”
Ching shook his head.
“All velly funnee,” he said. “Shoot big gun and make big hole in junk; knockee all man into bit; makee big junk sink and allee men dlown.”
“Yes,” said Mr Brooke, wrinkling up his forehead.
“Why not make lit’ fire and bu’n junk, killee allee same?”
“He has me there, Herrick,” said Mr Brooke.