Ten minutes later we were close in to the wharf, and Smith exclaimed—
“I say, why don’t we get that interpreter chap to take us all round the place?”
“Don’t know where he lives,” said Barkins, “or it wouldn’t be a bad plan.”
“I know,” I cried.
“How do you know?”
“He showed me when he was on board, through the little glass he wanted to sell you.”
“Why, you couldn’t see through that cheap thing, could you?”
“Yes, quite plain. It’s just there, close to the warehouses, with a signboard out.”
“So it is,” cried Smith, shading his eyes; and he read aloud from a red board with gilt letters thereon—
Ching
Englis’ spoken
Interpret
Fancee shop