“That can’t be our fire,” said Mr Brooke.
“Fliends on shore tellee pilate what to do,” said Ching, with his face close to us.
“What do you mean?” said Mr Brooke.
“Ching know. Show big lamp. Mean big junk going sail mollow morning, and pilate go long way wait for them.”
“Why? Couldn’t they stay here and wait?”
“No; silk-tea-ship see pilate junk waiting for them, and come out lit’ way and go back again. ’Flaid to sail away.”
“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” said Mr Brooke thoughtfully.
Then all at once there came over the black water a peculiar squeaking, grinding sound, followed by a similar noise of a different pitch.
“Pilate not going to s’eep; allee look out for light and go sail away d’leckly.”
“Yes, we have not wasted our time, Herrick,” whispered Mr Brooke. “They’re getting up their anchors.”