“Yes,” said Ching coolly; “cut allee boy float, settee fire junk, burnee ship.”
“Then what’s to be done?” I said. “It’s very disappointing.”
“Ching go back fancee shop; no catchee pilate, no plize-money.”
“Oh, but we shall drop upon them some day.”
“No dlop upon pilate. Ching not captain. Ching catchee.”
“How?” I said.
“Take big ship back to liver. Put big gun, put jolly sailor ’board two big junk, and go sail ’bout. Pilate come thinkee catchee plenty silk, plenty tea. Come aboard junk. Jolly sailor chop head off, and no more pilate.”
“That sounds well, Ching,” I said; “but I don’t think we could do that.”
“No catchee pilate?” he said. “Ching velly tire. No good, velly hungry; wantee go back fancee shop.”
I thought a good deal about what the Chinaman had said, for it was weary, dispiriting work this overhauling every vessel we saw that seemed likely to be our enemy. It was dangerous work, too, for the narrow sea was foul with reefs; but our information had been that it was in the neighbourhood of the many islands off Formosa that the piratical junks had their nest, and the risk had to be run for the sake of the possible capture to be made.