A good meal down below, without dog or rat, as Barkins put it, had, in addition to a comfortable wash and change, made us forget a good deal of our weariness; and, as we were still off duty, we three loitered about the deck, picking up all the information we could regarding the way in which the news had been brought, in exchange for accounts of our own adventures, to insure credence in which Barkins carried about the nearly-divided telescope which had stood us in such good stead.
It was rapidly growing dark, when, close under the bulwarks, and in very near neighbourhood to one of our big bow guns, we came upon what looked in the gloom like a heap of clothes.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Chine-he, sir,” said one of the sailors. “We give him a good tuck-out below, and he come up then for a snooze. Hi, John! The gents want to speak to you.”
There was a quick movement, and a partly bald head appeared from beneath two loose sleeves, which had been folded over it like the wings of a flying fox, and Ching’s familiar squeaky voice said—
“You wantee me. Go shore?”
“No, no; not to-night,” cried Smith. “We shall set you ashore when we come back.”
“You go velly far—allee way Gleat Blitain?”
“No, not this time, Ching,” cried Barkins, as we all laughed.
“No go allee way London? Ching wantee go London, see Queen Victolia and Plince o’ Wales.”