I knew why Mr Brooke required all his attention to be directed to the task he had on hand—very little reflection was necessary. For it was a difficult task in that black darkness to follow the course of those two junks by sound, and keep doggedly at their heels, so as to make sure they did not escape. And then once more the slow, careful steering was kept up, Mr Brooke’s hand guiding mine from time to time, while now for the most part we steered to follow the distant whishing sound made by the wind in the junk’s great matting-sails.
All at once, when a strange, drowsy feeling was creeping over me, I was startled back into wakefulness by Mr Brooke, who said in an angry whisper—
“Who’s that?”
I knew why he spoke, for, though half-asleep the moment before, I was conscious of a low, guttural snore.
“Can’t see, sir,” came from one of the men. “Think it’s Mr Ching.”
“No; Ching never makee nose talk when he s’eep,” said the Chinaman, and as he spoke the sound rose once more.
“Here, hi, messmate, rouse up!” said the man who had before spoken.
“Eh? tumble-up? our watch?” growled Tom Jecks. “How many bells is—”
“Sit up, Jecks,” whispered Mr Brooke angrily. “Next man take the sheet.”
There was the rustling sound of men changing their places, and I heard the coxswain whispering to the others forward.