“One of the chaps has got one,” said Smith. “Why?”
“You fetchee for Ching. I play, sing—‘ti-ope-I-ow’ for captain and jolly sailor. Makee Ching velly happy, and no makee sea-sick like coolie in big boat.”
“Not to-night, Ching,” said Barkins decisively. “Come along, lads. I’m afraid,” he continued, as we strolled right forward, “that some of us would soon be pretty sick of it if he did begin that precious howling. But I say, we ought to look after him well, poor old chap; it’s precious rough on him to be taken out to sea like this.”
“Yes,” I said; “and he behaved like a trump to us to-day.”
“That he did,” assented Smith, as all three rested our arms on the rail, and looked at the twinkling distant lights of the shore.
“You give Ching flee dollar,” said a voice close behind us, and we started round, to find that the object of our conversation had come up silently in his thick, softly-soled boots, in which his tight black trouser bottoms were tucked.
“Three dollars!” cried Smith; “what for?”
“Say all give Ching dollar show way.”
“So we did,” cried Barkins. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
“So had I.”